THE    MAN    WAS    UPON    HIS    FEET,   NOW,   BENDING    TOWARDS    HER    WITH 
ARMS    OUTSTRETCHED 

Drawing  by  Monahan. 


THE  GOLD  GIRL 


By  JAMES  B.  HENDRYX 


Author  of 

'The  Texan;*  "The  Gun-Brand,"  "The  Promise;'  "Prairie 

Flowers"  etc. 


Frontispiece  in  Color 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 


Copyright,  1920 

BY 

JAMES   B.    HENDRYX 


This  edition  is  issued  under  arrangement  with  the  publishers 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York  and  London 

'Cbc  Iknfcfccrbockcr  press,  Hew  J!?orft 

Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


The  Gold   Girl 


CHAPTER  I 

A  HORSEMAN   OF   THE  'HILLS 

Patty  Sinclair  reined  in  her  horse  at  the  top 
of  a  low  divide  and  gazed  helplessly  around  her. 
The  trail  that  had  grown  fainter  and  fainter  with 
its  ascent  of  the  creek  bed  disappeared  entirely 
at  the  slope  of  loose  rock  and  bunch  grass  that 
slanted  steeply  to  the  divide.  In  vain  she  scanned 
the  deeply  gored  valley  that  lay  before  her  and 
the  timbered  slopes  of  the  mountains  for  sign  of 
human  habitation.  Her  horse  lowered  his  head 
and  snipped  at  the  bunch  grass.  Stiffly  the  girl 
dismounted.  She  had  been  in  the  saddle  since 
early  noon  with  only  two  short  intervals  of  rest 
when  she  had  stopped  to  drink  and  to  bathe  her 
face  in  the  deliciously  cold  waters  of  mountain 
streams — and  now  the  trail  had  melted  into  the 

M(  [     it 


2  The  Gold  Girl 

hills,  and  the  broad  shadows  of  mountains  were 
lengthening.  Every  muscle  of  her  body  ached  at 
the  unaccustomed  strain,  and  she  was  very  hungry. 
She  envied  her  horse  his  enjoyment  of  the  bunch 
grass  which  he  munched  with  much  tongueing  of 
the  bit  and  impatient  shaking  of  the  head.  With 
bridle  reins  gripped  tightly  she  leaned  wearily 
against  the  saddle. 

"I'm  lost, "  she  murmured.  "Just  plain  lost. 
Surely  I  must  have  come  fifty  miles,  and  I  followed 
their  directions  exactly,  and  now  I'm  tired,  and 
stiff,  and  sore,  and  hungry,  and  lost."  A  grim 
little  smile  tightened  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 
"But  I'm  glad  I  came.  If  Aunt  Rebecca  could 
see  me  now !  Wouldn't  she  just  gloat  ?  '  I  told  you 
so,  my  dear,  just  as  I  often  told  your  poor  father, 
to  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  that  horrible 
country  of  wild  Indians,  and  ferocious  beasts,  and 
desperate  characters.'"  Hot  tears  blurred  her 
eyes  at  the  thought  of  her  father.  "This  is 
the  country  he  loved,  with  its  mountains  and 
its  woods  and  its  deep  mysterious  valleys — and 
I  want  to  love  it,  too.  And  I  will  love  it!  I'll 
find  his  mine  if  it  takes  me  all  the  rest  of  my 
life.  And  I'll  show  the  people  back  home  that  he 
was  right,  that  he  did  know  that   the  gold  was 


A  Horseman  of  the  Hills  3 

here,  and  that  he  wasn't  just  a  visionary  and  a 
ne'er-do-well!" 

A  rattle  of  loose  stones  set  her  heart  thumping 
wildly  and  caused  her  to  peer  down  the  back  trail 
where  a  horseman  was  slowly  ascending  the  slope. 
The  man  sat  loosely  in  his  saddle  with  the  easy 
grace  of  the  slack  rein  rider.  A  roll-brim  Stetson 
with  its  crown  boxed  into  a  peak  was  pushed 
slightly  back  upon  his  head,  and  his  legs  were 
encased  to  the  thighs  in  battered  leather  chaps 
whose  lacings  were  studded  with  silver  chonchas  as 
large  as  trade  dollars.  A  coiled  rope  hung  from 
a  strap  upon  the  right  side  of  his  saddle,  while  a 
leather-covered  jug  was  swung  upon  the  opposite 
side  by  a  thong  looped  over  the  horn.  All  this  the 
girl  took  in  at  a  glance  as  the  rangy  buckskin  picked 
his  way  easily  up  the  slope.  She  noted,  also,  the 
white  butt-plates  of  the  revolver  that  protruded 
from  its  leather  holster.  Her  first  impulse  was  to 
mount  and  fly,  but  the  futility  of  the  attempt  was 
apparent.  If  the  man  followed  she  could  hardly 
hope  to  elude  him  upon  a  horse  that  was  far  from 
fresh,  and  even  if  she  did  it  would  be  only  to  plunge 
deeper  into  the  hills — become  more  hopelessly 
lost.  Aunt  Rebecca's  words  "desperate  charac- 
ter"   seemed    suddenly    to    assume    significance. 


4  The  Gold  Girl 

The  man  was  very  close  now.  She  could  distinctly 
hear  the  breathing  of  his  horse,  and  the  soft  rattle 
of  bit-chains.  Despite  her  defiant  declaration 
that  she  was  glad  she  had  come,  she  knew  that  deep 
down  in  her  heart,  she  fervidly  wished  herself 
elsewhere.  "Maybe  he's  a  ranchman,"  she 
thought,  "but  why  should  any  honest  man  be 
threading  unfrequented  hill  trails  armed  with  a 
revolver  and  a  brown  leather  jug?"  No  answer 
suggested  itself,  and  summoning  her  haughtiest, 
coldest  look,  she  met  the  glance  of  the  man  who 
drew  rein  beside  her.  His  features  were  clean-cut, 
bronzed,  and  lean — with  the  sinewy  leanness  of 
health.  His  gray  flannel  shirt  rolled  open  at  the 
throat,  about  which  was  loosely  drawn  a  silk  scarf 
of  robin's-egg  blue,  held  in  place  by  the  tip  of  a 
buffalo  horn  polished  to  an  onyx  luster.  The  hand 
holding  the  bridle  reins  rested  carelessly  upon  the 
horn  of  his  saddle.  With  the  other  he  raised  the 
Stetson  from  his  head. 

"Good  evenin',  Miss,"  he  greeted,  pleasantly. 
"Lost?" 

"No,"  she  lied  brazenly,  "I  came  here  on  pur- 
pose— I — I  like  it  here."  She  felt  the  lameness 
of  the  lie  and  her  cheeks  flushed.  But  the  man 
showed  no  surprise  at  the  statement,  neither  did 


A  Horseman  of  the  Hills  5 

he  smile.  Instead,  he  raised  his  head  and  gravely 
inspected  the  endless  succession  of  mountains  and 
valleys  and  timbered  ridges. 

"It's  a  right  nice  place, "  he  agreed.  To  her 
surprise  the  girl  could  find  no  hint  of  sarcasm  in 
the  words,  nor  was  there  anything  to  indicate  the 
"desperate  character"  in  the  way  he  leaned  for- 
ward to  stroke  his  horse's  mane,  and  remove  a  wisp 
of  hair  from  beneath  the  headstall.  It  was  hard 
to  maintain  her  air  of  cold  reserve  with  this  soft- 
voiced,  grave-eyed  young  stranger.  She  wondered 
whether  a  "desperate  character"  could  love  his 
horse,  and  felt  a  wild  desire  to  tell  him  of  her 
plight.  But  as  her  eyes  rested  upon  the  brown 
leather  jug  she  frowned. 

The  man  shifted  himself  in  the  saddle.  "Well, 
I  must  be  goin',"  he  said.     "Good  evenin'. " 

Patty  bowed  ever  so  slightly,  as  he  replaced  the 
Stetson  upon  his  head  and  touched  his  horse 
lightly  with  a  spur.  "Come  along,  you  Buck, 
you!" 

As  the  horse  started  down  the  steep  descent  on 
the  other  side  of  the  divide  a  feeling  of  loneliness 
that  was  very  akin  to  terror  gripped  the  girl.  The 
sunlight  showed  only  upon  the  higher  levels,  and 
the  prospect  of  spending  the  night  alone  in  the 


6  The  Gold  Girl 

hills  without  food  or  shelter  produced  a  sudden 
chilling  sensation  in  the  pit  of  her  stomach. 

"Oh!     Please " 

The  buckskin  turned  in  his  tracks,  and  once 
more  the  man  was  beside  her  upon  the  ridge. 

"I  am  lost,"  she  faltered.  "Only,  I  hated  to 
admit  it." 

"Folks  always  do.  I've  be'n  lost  a  hundred 
times,  an'  I  never  would  admit  it." 

1 '  I  started  for  the  Watts's  ranch.  Do  you  know 
where  it  is?" 

"Yes,  it's  over  on  Monte's  Creek." 

Patty  smiled.  "I  could  have  told  you  that. 
The  trouble  is,  someone  seems  to  have  removed  all 
the  signs." 

"They  ought  to  put  'em  up  again, "  opined  the 
stranger  in  the  same  grave  tone  with  which  he  had 
bid  her  good  evening. 

"They  told  me  in  town  that  I  was  to  take  the 
left  hand  trail  where  it  forked  at  the  first  creek 
beyond  the  canyon." 

The  man  nodded.  "Yes,  that  about  fits  the 
case." 

"But  I  did  take  the  trail  that  turned  to  the  left 
up  the  first  creek  beyond  the  canyon,  and  I  haven't 
seen  the  slightest  intimation  of  a  ranch." 


A  Horseman  of  the  Hills  7 

"No,  you  see,  this  little  creek  don't  count, 
because  most  of  the  time  it's  dry;  an*  this  ain't  a 
regular  trail.  It's  an'  old  winter  road  that  was 
used  to  haul  out  cord  wood  an*  timber.  Monte's 
Creek  is  two  miles  farther  on.  It's  a  heap  bigger 
creek  than  this,  an'  the  trail's  better,  too.  Watts's 
is  about  three  mile  up  from  the  fork.  You  can't 
miss  it.    It's  the  only  ranch  there." 

"How  far  is  it  back  to  the  trail?"  asked  the  girl 
wearily. 

"About  two  mile.  It's  about  seven  mile  to 
Watts's  that  way  around.  There's  a  short  cut, 
through  the  hills,  but  I  couldn't  tell  you  so  you'd 
find  it.  There's  no  trail,  an'  it's  up  one  coulee 
an'  down  another  till  you  get  there.  I'm  goin' 
through  that  way;  if  you'd  like  to  come  along 
you're  welcome  to." 

For  a  moment  Patty  hesitated  but  her  eyes 
returned  to  the  jug  and  she  declined,  a  trifle 
stiffly.  "No,  thank  you.  I — I  think  I  will  go 
around  by  the  trail." 

Either  the  man  did  not  notice  the  curtness  of 
the  reply,  or  he  chose  to  ignore  it,  for  the  next 
instant,  noting  the  gasp  of  pain  and  the  sudden 
tightening  of  the  lips  that  accompanied  her  at- 
tempt to  raise  her  foot  to  the  stirrup,  he  swung 


8  The  Gold  Girl 

lightly  to  the  ground,  and  before  the  divined  what 
he  was  about,  had  lifted  her  gently  into  the  saddle 
and  pressed  the  reins  into  her  hand.  Without  a 
word  he  returned  to  his  horse,  and  with  face  flushed 
scarlet,  the  girl  glared  at  the  powerful  gray  shoul- 
ders as  he  picked  up  his  reins  from  the  ground. 
The  next  moment  she  headed  her  own  horse  down 
the  back  trail  and  rode  into  the  deepening  shadows. 
Gaining  the  main  trail  she  urged  her  horse  into  a 
run. 

"He — he's  awfully  strong,"  she  panted,  "and 
just  horrid!" 

From  the  top  of  the  divide  the  man  watched 
until  she  disappeared,  then  he  stroked  softly  the 
velvet  nose  that  nuzzled  against  his  cheek. 

"What  d'you  reckon,  Buck?  Are  they  goin'  to 
start  a  school  for  that  litter  of  young  Wattses? 
There  ain't  another  kid  within  twenty  mile — 
must  be."  As  he  swung  into  the  saddle  the 
leather  covered  jug  bumped  lightly  against  his 
knee.  There  was  a  merry  twinkle  of  laughter 
in  his  blue  eyes  as,  with  lips  solemn  as  an  ex- 
horter's,  he  addressed  the  offending  object.  "You 
brown  rascal,  you!  If  it  hadn't  be'n  for  you, 
me  an'  Buck  might  of  made  a  hit  with  the 
lady,  mightn't  we,  Buck?     Scratch   gravel,  now 


A  Horseman  of  the  Hills  9 

you  old  reprobate,  or  we  won't  get  to  camp  till 
midnight." 

"Anyway,  she  ain't  no  kin  to  the  Wattses,"  he 
added  reflectively,  "not  an'  that  clean,  she  ain't." 


CHAPTER  II 


AT   THE   WATTS   RANCH 


It  was  with  a  decided  feeling  of  depression  that 
Patty  Sinclair  approached  the  Watts  ranch.  Long 
before  she  reached  the  buildings  an  air  of  shiftless 
delapidation  was  manifest  in  the  ill-lined  barbed 
wire  fences  whose  rotting  posts  sagged  drunkenly 
upon  loosely  strung  wire.  A  dry  weed-choked 
irrigation  ditch  paralleled  the  trail,  its  wooden 
flumes,  like  the  fence  posts,  rotting  where  they 
stood,  and  its  walls  all  but  obliterated  by  the  wash 
of  spring  freshets.  The  depression  increased  as 
she  passed  close  beside  the  ramshackle  log  stable, 
where  her  horse  sank  to  his  ankles  in  a  filthy  brown 
seepage  of  mud  and  rotting  straw  before  the  door. 
Two  small,  slouchily  built  stacks  of  weather- 
stained  hay  occupied  a  fenced-off  enclosure,  beside 
which,  with  no  attempt  to  protect  them  from  the 
weather,  stood  a  dish-wheeled  hay  rake,  and  a  rusty 
mowing  machine,  its  cutter-bar  buried  in  weeds. 

10 


At  the  Watts  Ranch  n 

Passing  through  a  small  clump  of  cottonwoods, 
in  which  three  or  four  raw-boned  horses  had  taken 
refuge  from  the  mosquitoes,  she  came  suddenly 
upon  the  ranch  house,  a  squat,  dirt-roofed  cabin 
of  unpeeled  logs.  So,  this  was  the  Watts  ranch! 
Again  and  again  in  the  delirium  that  preceded 
her  father's  death,  he  had  muttered  of  Monte's 
Creek  and  the  Watts  ranch,  until  she  had  come  to 
think  of  it  as  a  place  of  cool  halls  and  broad  ver- 
andahs situated  at  the  head  of  some  wide  mountain 
valley  in  which  sleek  cattle  grazed  belly-deep  in 
lush  grasses. 

A  rabble  of  nondescript  curs  came  snapping  and 
yapping  about  her  horse's  legs  until  dispersed  by  a 
harsh  command  from  the  dark  interior  of  the  cabin. 

"  Yere,  yo'  git  out  o'  thet! " 

The  dogs  slunk  away  and  their  places  were 
immediately  taken  by  a  half-dozen  ill-kempt,  be- 
draggled children.  A  tousled  head  was  thrust  from 
the  doorway,  and  after  a  moment  of  inspection  a 
man  stepped  out  upon  the  hard-trodden  earth  of 
the  dooryard.  He  was  bootless  and  a  great  toe 
protruded  from  a  hole  in  the  point  of  his  sock. 
He  wore  a  faded  hickory  shirt,  and  the  knees  of 
his  bleached-out  overalls  were  patched  with  blue 
gingham. 


12  The  Gold  Girl 

"Howdy,"  he  greeted,  in  a  not  unkindly  tone, 
and  paused  awkwardly  while  the  protruding  toe 
tried  vainly  to  burrow  from  sight  in  the  hard  earth. 

"Is — is  this  the  Watts  ranch?"  The  girl  sup- 
pressed a  wild  desire  to  burst  into  tears. 

"Yes,  mom,  this  is  hit — what  they  is  of  hit." 
His  ringers  picked  vaguely  at  his  scraggly  beard. 
An  idea  seemed  suddenly  to  strike  him,  and  turn- 
ing, he  thrust  his  head  in  at  the  door.  "Ma!" 
he  called,  loudly,  and  again  "Ma!  Ma!" 

The  opening  of  a  door  within  was  followed  by 
the  sound  of  a  harsh  voice.  "Lawzie  me,  John 
Watts,  what's  ailin'  yo'  now — got  a  burr  in  under 
yo'  gallus?"  A  tall  woman  with  a  broad,  kindly 
face  pushed  past  the  man,  wiping  suds  upon  her 
apron  from  a  pair  of  very  large  and  very  red  hands. 

"Sakes  alive,  if  hit  hain't  a  lady!  Hain't  yo' 
done  tol*  her  to  git  off  an'  come  in?  Looks  like 
yer  manners,  what  little  yo'  ever  hed  of  'em,  fell 
in  the  crick  an'  got  drownded.  Jest  yo'  climb 
right  down  offen  thet  cayuse,  dearie,  an'  come  on 
in  the  house.  John,  yo'  oncinch  thet  saddle,  an' 
then,  Horatius  Ezek'l,  yo'  an'  David  Golieth, 
taken  the  hoss  to  the  barn  an'  see't  he's  hayed  an' 
watered  'fore  yo'  come  back.  Microby  Dandeline, 
yo'  git  a  pot  o'  tea  abilin'  an'  fry  up  a  bate  o' 


At  the  Watts  Ranch  13 

bacon,  an'  cut  some  bread,  an'  warm  up  the  rest 
o'  thet  pone,  an'  yo',  Lillian  Russell,  yo'  finish 
dryin'  them  dishes  an'  set  'em  back  on  the  table. 
An'  Abraham  Lincoln  Wirt,  yo'  fetch  a  pail  o' 
water,  an'  wrinch  out  the  worsh  dish,  an'  set  a 
piece  o'  soap  by,  an'  a  clean  towel,  an'  light  up  the 
lamp." 

Under  Ma  Watts's  volley  of  orders,  issued  with- 
out pause  for  breath,  things  began  to  happen  with 
admirable  promptitude. 

"Land  sakes!"  cried  the  woman,  as  Patty 
climbed  painfully  to  the  ground,  "hain't  yo'  that 
sore  an'  stiff!  Yo'  must  a-rode  clean  from  town, 
an'  hits  fifty  mile,  an'  yo'  not  use  to  ridin'  neither, 
to  tell  by  the  whiteness  of  yo'  face.  I'll  help  yo' 
git  off  them  hat  an'  gloves,  an'  thar  sets  the  worsh 
dish  on  the  bench  beside  the  do'.  Microby  Dan- 
deline  '11  hev  a  bite  fer  ye  d'rec'ly  an'  I'll  fix  yo'  up 
a  shake-down.  Horatius  Ezek'l  an'  David  Golieth 
kin  go  out  an'  crawl  in  the  hay  an'  yo'  c'n  hev 
theirn."  Words  flowed  from  Ma  Watts  naturally 
and  continuously  without  effort,  as  water  flows 
from  a  spring.  Patty  who  had  made  several  un- 
successful attempts  to  speak,  interrupted  abruptly. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  think  of  depriving  the  boys  of 
their  bed.    I " 


H  The  Gold  Girl 

"Now,  honey,  just  yo'  quit  pesterin'  'bout  thet. 
Them  young-uns  'druther  sleep  out'n  in,  any  time. 
Ef  I'd  let  'em  they'd  grow  up  plumb  wild.  When 
yo've  got  worshed  up  come  on  right  in  the  kitchen 
an'  set  by.  Us  Wattses  is  plain  folks  an'  don't 
pile  on  no  dog.  We've  et  an'  got  through,  but  yo' 
take  all  the  time  yo're  a  mind  to,  an'  me  an' 
Microby  Dandeline  '11  set  by  an'  yo'  c'n  tell  us 
who  yo'  be,  ef  yo're  a  mind  to,  an'  ef  not  hit  don't 
make  no  difference.  We  hain't  partic'lar  out  here, 
nohow — we've  hed  preachers  an'  horse-thieves, 
anr  never  asked  no  odds  of  neither.  I  says  to 
Watts " 

Again  the  girl  made  forcible  entry  into  the  con- 
versation. ' '  My  name  is  Sinclair.  Patty  Sinclair, 
of  Middleton,  Connecticut.    My  father " 

"Land  o'  love!  So  yo're  Mr.  Sinclair's  darter! 
Yo'  do  favor  him  a  mite  about  the  eyes,  come  to 
look;  but  yer  nose  is  difl'rnt  to  hisn,  an'  so's  yer 
mouth — must  a  be'n  yer  ma's  was  like  that.  But 
sometimes  they  don't  favor  neither  one.  Take 
Microby  Dandeline,  here,  'tain't  no  one  could  say 
she  hain't  Watts's,  an'  Horatius  Ezek'l,  he  favors 
me,  but  fer's  the  rest  of  'em  goes,  they  mightn't 
b'long  to  neither  one  of  us."  Microby  Dandeline 
placed  the  food  upon  the  table  and  sank,  quiet  as 


At  the  Watts  Ranch  15 

a  mouse  into  a  chair  beneath  the  glass  bracket- 
lamp  with  her  large  dark  eyes  fixed  upon  Patty, 
who  devoured  the  unappetizing  food  with  an  en- 
thusiasm born  of  real  hunger,  while  the  older 
woman  analyzed  volubly  the  characteristics, 
facial  and  temperamental,  of  each  and  several  of 
the  numerous  Watts  progeny. 

Having  exhausted  the  subject  of  offspring,  Ma 
Watts  flashed  a  direct  question.  "How's  yer  pa, 
an'  where's  he  at?  " 

"My  father  died  last  month, "  answered  the  girl 
without  raising  her  eyes  from  her  plate. 

"Fer  the  land  sakes,  child!     I  want  to  know! " 

1 '  Watts !  Watts ! ' '  The  lank  form  appeared  in 
the  doorway.  "This  here's  Mr.  Sinclair's  darter, 
an'  he's  up  an'  died." 

The  man's  fingers  fumbled  uncertainly  at  his 
beard,  as  his  wife  paused  for  the  intelligence  to 
strike  home.  ' '  Folks  does, ' '  he  opined,  judiciously 
after  a  profound  interval. 

"That's  so,  when  yo'  come  to  think  'bout  hit," 
admitted  Ma  Watts.    ' '  What  did  he  die  of  ? " 

1  'Cerebrospinal  meningitis . ' ' 

* '  My  goodness  sakes !  I  should  think  he  would ! 
When  my  pa  died — back  in  Tennessee,  hit  wus, 
the  doctor  'lowed  hit  wus  the  eetch,  but  sho',  he'd 


i6  The  Gold  Girl 

hed  thet  fer  hit  wus  goin'  on  seven  year.  'Bout 
a  week  'fore  he  come  to  die,  he  got  so's  't  he 
couldn't  eat  nothin',  an'  he  wus  thet  het  up  with 
the  fever  he  like  to  burnt  up,  an'  his  head  ached 
him  fit  to  bust,  an'  he  wus  out  of  hit  fer  four  days, 
an*  I  mistrust  thet-all  mought  of  hed  somethin' 
to  do  with  his  dyin\  The  doctor,  he  come  an' 
bled  him  every  day,  but  he  died  on  him,  an'  then 
he  claimed  hit  was  the  eetch,  or  mebbe  hit  wus 
jest  his  time  hed  come,  he  couldn't  tell  which.  I've 
wondered  sence  if  mebbe  we'd  got  a  town  doctor 
he  mought  of  lived.  But  Doctor  Swanky  wus  a 
mountain  man  an*  we  wus,  too,  so  we  taken  him. 
But,  he  wus  more  of  a  hoss  doctor,  an'  seems  like, 
he  never  did  hev  no  luck,  much,  with  folks." 

Her  nerves  all  a- jangle  from  trail- strain  and  the 
depressing  atmosphere  of  the  Watts  ranch,  it 
seemed  to  Patty  she  must  shriek  aloud  if  the 
woman  persisted  in  her  ceaseless  gabble. 

"Yer  pa  wus  a  nice  man,  an'  well  thought  of. 
We-all  know'd  him  well.  It  wus  goin'  on  three 
year  he  prospected  'round  here  in  the  hills,  an* 
many  a  time  he's  sot  right  where  yo're  settin'  now, 
an*  et  his  meal  o'  vittles.  Some  said  las'  fall  'fore 
he  went  back  East  how  he'd  made  his  strike,  an' 
hit  wus  quartz  gold,  an'  how  he'd  gone  back  to  git 


At  the  Watts  Ranch  17 

money  to  work  hit.  Mr.  Bethune  thought  so,  an* 
Lord  Clendenning.  They  must  of  be'n  thicker'n 
thieves  with  yer  pa,  'cordin'  to  their  tell."  The 
woman  paused  and  eyed  the  girl  inquisitively. 
"Did  he  make  his  strike,  an*  why  didn't  he  record 
hit?" 

''I  don't  know, "  answered  the  girl  wearily. 

"An'  don't  yo'  tell  no  one  ef  yo'  do  know.  I 
b'lieve  in  folks  bein'  close-mouthed.  Like  I'm 
alius  a-tellin'  Watts.  But  yo'  must  be  plumb  wore 
out,  what  with  ridin'  all  day,  an'  a-tellin'  me  all 
about  yo'se'f.  I'll  slip  in  an*  turn  them  blankets 
an'  yo'  kin  jest  crawl  right  into  'em  an'  sleep  'til  yo' 
slep'  out." 

Ma  Watts  bustled  away,  and  Microby  Dande- 
line  began  to  clear  away  the  dishes. 

" Can't  I  help?"  offered  Patty. 

The  large,  wistful  eyes  regarded  her  seriously. 

"  No.  I  like  yo'.  Yo'  hain't  to  worsh  no  dishes. 
Yo're  purty.  I  like  Mr.  Bethune,  an'  Lord  Clen- 
denning, an'  that  Vil  Holland.  I  like  everybody. 
Folks  is  nice,  hain't  they?" 

"Why — yes,"  agreed  Patty,  smiling  into  the 
big  serious  eyes.    "How  old  are  you?" 

"I'm  seventeen,  goin'  on  eighteen.  Yo'  come  to 
live  with  us-uns?" 


is  The  Gold  Girl 

"No — that  is — I  don't  know  exactly  where  I 
am  going  to  live." 

"That  Vil  Holland,  he's  got  a  nice  camp,  an' 
'tain't  only  him  there.  Why  don't  yo'  live  there? 
I  want  to  live  there  an'  I  go  to  his  camp  on  Gee 
Dot,  but  he  chases  me  away,  an'  sometimes  he 
gits  mad." 

"What  is  Gee  Dot?"  Patty  stared  in  amaze- 
ment at  this  girl  with  the  mind  of  a  child. 

"Oh,  he's  my  pony.  I  reckon  Mr.  Bethune 
wouldn't  git  mad,  but  I  don't  know  where  he 
lives." 

"I  think  you  had  better  stay  right  here,"  ad- 
vised Patty,  seriously.  "This  is  your  home,  you 
know." 

"Yes,  but  they  hain't  much  room.  Me,  an' 
Lillian  Russell,  an'  David  Golieth  sleeps  on  a 
shake-down,  an'  they-all  shoves  an'  kicks,  an' 
sometimes  when  I  want  to  sleep,  Chattenoogy 
Tennessee  sets  up  a  squarkin'  an'  I  cain't.  Babies 
is  a  lot  of  bother.  An'  they's  a  lot  of  dishes  an' 
chores  an'  things.  Wisht  I  hed  a  dress  like  yo'n ! " 
The  girl  passed  a  timid  ringer  over  the  fabric  of 
Patty's  moleskin  riding  coat.  Ma  Watts  appeared 
in  the  doorway  connecting  the  two  rooms. 

"Well,  fer  the  lands  sakes!     Listen  at  that! 


At  the  Watts  Ranch  19 

Microby  Dandeline  Watts,  where' s  yo'  manners?" 
She  turned  to  Patty.  "Don't  mind  her,  she's 
kind  o'  simple,  an'  don't  mean  no  harm.  Yo' 
shake-down's  ready  fer  yo'  an'  I  reckon  yo'  glad, 
bein'  that  wore  out.  Hit's  agin  the  east  wall. 
Jest  go  on  right  in,  don't  mind  Watts.  Hit's  dark 
in  thar,  an'  he's  rolled  in.  We  hain't  only  one 
bed  an'  me  an'  Watts  an'  the  baby  sleeps  in  hit,  on 
'tother  side  the  room.  Watts,  he  aims  to  put  up 
some  bunks  when  he  gits  time." 

Sick  at  heart,  and  too  tired  and  sore  of  body  to 
protest  against  any  arrangement  that  would  allow 
her  to  sleep  the  girl  murmured  her  thanks  and 
crossed  to  the  door  of  the  bedroom.  Not  at  all 
sure  of  her  bearings  she  paused  uncertainly  in  the 
doorway  until  a  sound  of  heavy  breathing  located 
the  slumbering  Watts,  and  turning  toward  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room,  proceeded  cautiously 
through  the  blackness  until  her  feet  came  in  con- 
tact with  her  "  shake-down,  "  which  consisted  of  a 
pair  of  blankets  placed  upon  a  hay  tick.  The  odor 
of  the  blankets  was  anything  but  fresh,  but  she 
sank  to  the  floor,  and  with  much  effort  and  tor- 
turing of  strained  muscles,  succeeded  in  removing 
her  boots  and  jacket  and  throwing  herself  upon  the 
bed.    Almost  at  the  moment  her  head  touched  the 


20  The  Gold  Girl 

coarse,  unslipped  pillow,  she  fell  into  a  deep  sleep, 
from  which  hours  later  she  was  awakened  by  an 
insistent  tap,  tap,  tap,  tap,  tap,  tap.  "Someone 
has  forgotten  to  pull  up  the  canoe  and  the  waves 
are  slapping  it  against  the  side  of  the  dock,'*  she 
thought  drowsily.  "Did  I  have  it  last?"  She 
stirred  uneasily  and  the  pain  of  movement  caused 
her  to  gasp.  She  opened  her  eyes,  and  instead  of 
her  great  airy  chamber  in  Aunt  Rebecca's  mansion 
by  the  sea,  she  was  greeted  by  the  sight  of  the  hot, 
stuffy  room  of  the  Watts  cabin.  A  rumpled  pile 
of  blankets  was  mounded  upon  the  bed  against 
the  opposite  wall,  and  a  shake-down  similar  to  her 
own  occupied  a  space  beside  the  open  door  through 
which  hot,  bright  sunlight  streamed. 

Several  hens  pecked  assiduously  at  some  crumbs, 
and  Patty  realized  that  it  was  the  sound  of  their 
bills  upon  the  wooden  floor  that  had  awakened  her. 
She  succeeded  after  several  painful  attempts  in 
pulling  on  her  boots,  and  as  she  rose  to  her  feet, 
Ma  Watts  thrust  her  head  in  at  the  door. 

"Lawzie!  Honey,  did  them  hens  wake  yo'  up? 
Sho' !  ef  I'd  a  thought  o'  thet,  I'd  o'  fed  'em  outside, 
an'  yo'  could  of  kep'  on  sleepin'.  'They  ain't 
no  thin'  like  a  good  long  sleep  when  yo'  tired, ' 
Watts  says,  ah'  he  ort  to  know.    He  aims  to  build 


At  the  Watts  Ranch  21 

a  house  fer  them  hens  when  he  gits  time.  Yo' 
know  where  the  worsh  dish  is,  jest  make  yo'se'f 
to  home,  dinner  11  be  ready  d'rec'ly."  The  feel  of 
the  cold  water  was  grateful  as  the  girl  dashed  it 
over  her  face  and  hands  from  the  little  tin  wash- 
basin on  the  bench  beside  the  door.  Watts  sat 
with  his  chair  resting  upon  its  rear  legs  and  its 
back  against  the  shady  west  wall  of  the  cabin. 

"Mo'nin', "  he  greeted.  ''Hit's  right  hot;  I  be'n 
studyin'  'bout  fixin'  them  thar  arrigation  ditches." 

Patty  smiled  brightly.  "All  they  need  is  clean- 
ing out,  isn't  it?" 

"Yas,  mom.  Thet  an'  riggin'  up  them  flumes. 
But  it's  a  right  smart  o'  work,  an'  then  the  re- 
sevoy's  busted,  too.  I  be'n  aimin'  to  fix  'em  when 
I  git  time.  They  hain't  had  no  water  in  'em  fer 
three  year.  Yb'  see,  two  year  ago  hit  looked  like 
rain  mos'  every  day.  Hit  didn't  rain  none  to 
speak,  but  hit  kep'  a  body  hatin'  to  start  workin' 
fer  fear  it  would.  An'  las'  year  hit  never  looked 
like  rain  none,  so  hit  wasn't  no  use  fixin'  'em.  An' 
this  year  I  don't  know  jest  what  to  do,  hit  might, 
an' then  agin  hit  mightn't.  Drat  thet  sun!  Here 
hit  is  dinner  time.  Seems  like  hit  never  lets  a  body 
set  in  orie  place  long  'nough  to  study  out  whut 
he'd  ort  to  do."    Watts  rose  slowly  to  his  feet, 


22  The  Gold  Girl 

and  picking  up  his  chair,  walked  deliberately 
around  to  the  east  side  of  the  house,  where  he 
planted  it  with  the  precision  born  of  long  practice 
in  the  exact  spot  that  the  shadow  would  be  longest 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  midday  meal. 

Patty  entered  the  cabin  and  a  few  minutes 
later  the  sound  of  voices  reached  her  ears.  Ma 
Watts  hurried  to  the  window. 

1 'Well,  if  hit  ain't  Mr.  Bethune  an'  Lord  Clen- 
denning!  Ef  you  see  one  you  know  the  other 
hain't  fer  off.  Hain't  he  good  lookin'  though — Mr. 
Bethune?  Lord  hain't  so  much  fer  looks,  but  he's 
some  high  up  nobility  like  over  to  England  where 
he  come  from,  only  over  yere  they  call  'em  re- 
mittance men,  an'  they  don't  do  nothin'  much 
but  ride  around  an'  drink  whisky,  an'  they  git 
paid  fer  hit,  too.  Folks  says  how  Mr.  Bethune's 
gran'ma  wus  a  squaw,  but  I  don't  believe  'em. 
Anyways,  I  alius  like  him.  He's  got  manners,  an' 
hit  don't  stan'  to  reason  no  breed  would  have 
manners." 

Patty  could  distinctly  see  the  two  riders  as  they 
lounged  in  their  saddles.  The  larger,  whose  bulg- 
ing blue  eyes  and  drooping  blond  mustache  gave 
him  a  peculiar  walrus-like  expression,  she  swept 
at  a  glance.    The  other  was  talking  to  Watts  and 


At  the  Watts  Ranch  23 

the  girl  noted  the  slender  figure  with  its  almost 
feminine  delicacy  of  mold,  and  the  finely  chiseled 
features  dominated  by  eyes  black  as  jet — eyes 
that  glowed  with  a  velvety  softness  as  he  spoke. 

"  We  have  been  looking  over  your  upper  pasture," 
he  said.  "A  fellow  named  Schmidt  over  in  the 
Blackfoot  country  will  be  delivering  some  horses 
across  the  line  this  summer  and  he  wants  to  rent 
some  pastures  at  different  poincs  along  the  trail. 
How  about  it?" 

Watts  rubbed  his  beard  uncertainly.  "Them 
fences  hain't  hoss  tight.  I  be'n  studyin'  'bout 
fixin'  'em." 

"Why  don't  you  get  at  it?" 

"Well  they's  the  resevoy,  an'  the  ditches " 

"Never  mind  the  ditches.  All  that  fence  needs 
is  a  few  posts  and  some  staples." 

"My  ax  hain't  fitten  to  chop  with  no  mo',  an' 
I  druv  over  the  spade  an'  bruk  the  handle.  I 
hain't  got  no  luck." 

Reaching  into  his  pocket,  Bethune  withdrew  a 
gold  piece  which  he  tossed  to  Watts.  "Maybe 
this  will  change  your  luck,"  he  smiled.  "The  fact 
is  I  want  that  pasture — or,  rather,  Schultz  does." 

"Thought  yo'  said  Schmidt." 

"Did  I?    Those  kraut  names  all  sound  alike  to 


24  The  Gold  Girl 

me.  But  his  name  is  Schultz.  The  point  is,  he'll 
pay  you  five  dollars  a  month  to  hold  the  pasture, 
and  five  dollars  for  every  day  or  night  he  uses  it. 
That  ten  spot  pays  for  the  first  two  months. 
Better  buy  a  new  ax  and  spade  and  some  staples 
and  get  to  work.  The  exercise  will  do  you  good, 
and  Schultz  may  want  to  use  that  pasture  in  a 
couple  of  weeks  or  so." 

"Well,  I  reckon  I  kin.  Hit's  powerful  hot  fer 
to  work  much,  but  that's  a  sight  o'  money.  As 
I  wus  savin*  to  Mr.  Sinclair's  darter " 

" Sinclair's  daughter!  What  do  you  mean?  Is 
Sinclair  back?" 

Patty  noted  the  sudden  flash  of  the  jet  black 
eyes  at  the  mention  of  her  father's  name.  It  was 
as  though  a  point  of  polished  steel  had  split  their 
velvet  softness.  Yet  there  was  no  hostility  in  the 
glance;  rather,  it  was  a  gleam  of  intense  interest. 
The  girl's  own  interest  in  the  quarter-breed  had 
been  casual  atjmost,  hardly  more  than  that  ac- 
corded by  a  passing  glance  until  she  had  chanced 
to  hear  him  refer  to  the  man  in  the  Blackfoot 
country  in  one  breath  as  Schmidt,  and  in  the  next 
as  Schultz.  She  wondered  at  that  and  so  had 
remained  standing  beside  Mrs.  Watts,  screened 
from  the  outside  by  the  morning-glory  vines  that 


At  the  Watts  Ranch  25 

served  as  a  curtain  for  the  window.  The  trifling 
incident  of  the  changed  name  was  forgotten  in  the 
speculation  as  to  why  her  father's  return  to  the 
hill  country  should  be  a  matter  of  evident  import 
to  this  sagebrush  cavalier.  So  intent  had  she  be- 
come that  she  hardly  noticed  the  cruel  bluntness 
of  Watts' s  reply. 
*  "  He's  dead." 

"Dead!" 

"Yas,  he  died  back  East  an*  his  darter's  come." 

"Does  she  know  he  made  a  strike?"  Patty 
noted  the  look  of  eagerness  that  accompanied  the 
words. 

"I  do'no."  Watts  wagged  his  head  slowly. 
"Mebbe  so;  mebbe  not." 

"Because,  if  she  doesn't,"  Bethune  hastened  to 
add,  "she  should  be  told.  Rod  Sinclair  was  one 
of  the  best  friends  I  had,  and  if  he  has  gone  I'm 
right  here  to  see  that  his  daughter  gets  a  square 
deal.  Of  course  if  she  has  the  location,  she's  all 
right."  Patty  wondered  whether  the  man  had 
purposely  raised  his  voice,  or  was  it  her  imagina- 
tion? 

Ma  Watts  had  started  for  the  door.  "  Come  on 
out,  honey,  an'  I'll  make  yo'  acquainted  with  Mr. 
Bethune.     He  wus  a  friend  of  yo'  pa,  an'  Lord 


26  The  Gold  Girl 

too."  As  she  followed  the  woman  to  the  door, 
the  girl  was  conscious  of  an  indefinable  feeling  of 
distrust  for  the  man.  Somehow,  his  words  had 
not  rung  true. 

As  the  two  women  stepped  from  the  house  the 
horsemen  swung  from  their  saddles  and  stood  with 
uncovered  heads. 

"This  yere's  Mr.  Sinclair's  darter,  Mr.  Bethune," 
beamed  Ma  Watts.  "An'  I'd  take  hit  proud  ef 
yo'd  all  stay  to  dinner." 

"Ah,  Miss  Sinclair,  I  am  most  happy  to  know 
you.  Permit  me  to  present  my  friend  Lord 
Clendenning." 

The  Englishman  bowed  low.  "The  prefix  is 
merely  a  euphonism  Miss  Sinclair.  What  you 
really  behold  in  me  is  the  decayed  part  of  a  decay- 
ing aristocracy." 

Patty  laughed.    ' '  My  goodness,  what  frankness ! ' ' 

1 '  Come  on,  now,  an'  set  by  'fore  the  vittles  gits 
cold  on  us.  Yere  yo'  Horatius  Ezek'l  an'  David 
Golieth,  yo'  hay  them  hosses!" 

"No,  no!  Really,  Mrs.  Watts,  we  must  not 
presume  on  your  hospitality.  Important  business 
demands  our  presence  elsewhere." 

"Lawzie,  Mr.  Bethune,  there  yo'  go  with  them 
big  words  agin.     Which  I  s'pose  yo'  mean  yo' 


At  the  Watts  Ranch  27 

cain't  stay.  But  they's  a  plenty,  an'  yo'  welcome." 
Again  Bethune  declined  and  as  the  woman  re- 
entered the  house,  he  turned  to  the  girl. 

"I  only  just  learned  of  your  father's  untimely 
death.  Permit  me  to  express  my  sincerest  sym- 
pathy, and  to  assure  you  that  if  I  can  be  of  service 
to  you  in  any  way  I  am  yours  to  command." 

"Thank  you,"  answered  Patty,  flushing  slightly 
under  the  scrunity  of  the  black  eyes.  ' '  I  am  here 
to  locate  my  father's  claim.  I  want  to  do  it  alone, 
but  if  I  can't  I  shall  certainly  ask  assistance  of  his 
friends." 

"Exactly.  But,  my  dear  Miss  Sinclair,  let  me 
warn  you.  There  are  men  in  these  hills  who  sus- 
pected that  your  father  made  a  strike,  who  would 
stop  at  nothing  to  wrest  your  secret  from  you." 
The  girl  nodded.  "I  suppose  so.  But  forewarned 
is  forearmed,  isn't  it?    I  thank  you." 

"Thet  Vil  Holland  wus  by  yeste'day, "  said 
Watts. 

Bethune  frowned.     "What  did  he  want?" 

"Didn't  want  nothin'.  Jest  come  a-ridin* 
by." 

"I  should  think  you'd  had  enough  of  him  after 
the  way  he  ran  your  sheep  man  off." 

Watts  rubbed  his  beard.    "Well,  I  do'no.    The 


28  The  Gold  Girl 

cattlemen  pays  me  same  as  that  sheep  man  done. 
Vil  Holland  tended  to  that." 

"That  isn't  the  point.  What  right  has  Vil 
Holland  and  others  of  his  ilk  to  tell  you,  or  me,  or 
anybody  else  who  we  shall,  or  shall  not  rent  to? 
It  is  the  principle  of  the  thing.  The  running  off 
of  those  sheep  was  a  lawless  act,  and  the  sooner 
lawlessness,  as  exemplified  by  Vil  Holland  is 
stamped  out  of  these  hills,  the  better  it  will  be  for 
the  community.  He  better  not  try  to  bulldoze  me. ' ' 
Bethune  turned  to  Patty.  "That  Vil  Holland  is 
the  man  I  had  in  mind,  Miss  Sinclair,  when  I 
warned  you  to  choose  your  friends  wisely.  He 
would  stop  at  nothing  to  gain  an  end,  even  to 
posing  as  a  friend  of  your  father.  In  all  prob- 
ability he  will  offer  to  assist  you,  but  if  you  have 
any  map  or  description  of  your  father's  location 
do  not  under  any  circumstances  show  it  to 
him." 

Patty  smiled.  "If  any  such  paper  exists  I  shall 
keep  it  to  myself." 

Bethune  returned  the  smile.  "Good-by, "  he 
said.  ' '  I  shall  look  forward  to  meeting  you  again. 
Shall  you  remain  here?" 

"I  have  made  no  plans,"  she  answered,  and  as 
she  watched  the  two  riders  disappear  down  the 


At  the  Watts  Ranch  29 

creek  trail  her  lips  twisted  into  a  smile.  "May 
pose  as  a  friend  of  your  father  .  .  .  and  probably 
will  offer  to  assist  you,"  she  repeated  under  her 
breath.  "Well,  Mr.  Bethune,  I  thank  you  again 
for  the  warning." 


CHAPTER  III 


PATTY   GOES   TO   TOWN 


Ma  Watts  called  loudly  from  the  doorway  and 
numerous  small  Wattses  appeared  as  if  by  magic 
from  the  direction  of  the  creek  and  the  cottonwood 
thicket.  Dinner  consisted  of  flabby  salt  pork, 
swimming  in  its  own  grease,  into  which  were 
dipped  by  means  of  fingers  or  forks,  huge  mis- 
shapen slices  of  sour  white  bread.  There  was  also 
an  abundance  of  corn  pone,  black  molasses,  and  a 
vile  concoction  that  Ma  Watts  called  coffee.  Flies 
swarmed  above  the  table  and  settled  upon  the  food 
from  which  they  arose  in  clouds  at  each  repetition 
of  the  dipping  process. 

How  she  got  through  the  meal  Patty  did  not 
know,  but  to  her  surprise  and  disgust,  realized 
that  she  had  actually  consumed  a  considerable 
portion  of  the  unappetizing  mess.  Watts  arose, 
stretched  prodigiously,  and  sauntered  to  his  chair 
which,  true  to  calculation  was  already  just  within 
the  shadow  of  the  east  side  of  the  house. 

30 


Patty  Goes  to  Town  31 

Baby  on  hip,  Ma  Watts,  assisted  by  Microby 
Dandeline  and  Lillian  Russell,  attacked  the  dishes. 
All  offers  of  help  from  Patty  were  declined. 

"Yo'  welcome  to  stay  yere  jest  as  long  as  yo' 
want  to,  honey,  an*  yo'  hain't  got  to  work  none 
neither.  They's  a  old  piece  o'  stack-cover  some- 
wheres  around  an*  them  young-uns  kin  rig  'em 
up  a  tent  an'  sleep  in  hit  all  summer,  an*  yo'  kin 
hev  their  shake-down  like  yo'  done  las'  night. 
I  s'pose  yo're  yere  about  yo'  pa's  claim?'' 

"Yes,"  answered  the  girl,  "and  I  certainly 
appreciate  your  hospitality.  I  hope  I  can  repay 
you  some  day,  but  I  cannot  think  of  settling  myself 
upon  you  this  way.  My  work  will  take  me  out 
into  the  hills  and " 

"Jest  like  yo'  pa  usta  say.  He  wus  that  fond  o' 
rale  home  cookin'  thet  he'd  come  'long  every  onct 
in  a  month  'er  so,  an'  git  him  a  squr  meal,  an'  then 
away  he'd  go  out  to  his  camp." 

"Where  was  his  camp?"  asked  the  girl  eagerly. 

"  Lawzie,  his  camp  wus  a  tent,  an'  he  moved  hit 
around  so  they  couldn't  no  one  tell  from  one  day 
to  'nother  where  he'd  be  at.  But,  he  never  wus 
no  great  ways  from  here,  gen' ally  within  ten  mile, 
one  way  er  'nother.  Hits  out  yonder  in  the  barn — 
his  tent  an'  outfit — pick  an'  pan  an'  shovel  an' 


32  The  Gold  Girl 

dishes,  all  ready  to  throw  onto  his  pack  hoss  which 
hits  a  mewl  an'  runnin'  in  the  hills  with  them 
hosses  of  ourn.  If  hit  wusn't  fer  the  fences  they'd 
be  in  the  pasture.  Watts  aims  to  fix  'em  when  he 
gits  time." 

"I  don't  know  much  about  tents,  but  I  guess  I'll 
have  to  use  it,  that  is,  if  there  isn't  another  ranch, 
or  a — a  house,  or  something,  where  I  can  rent  a 
room  all  to  myself." 

11  Great  sakes,  child !  They  hain't  another  ranch 
within  twenty -five  mile,  an'  thet's  towards  town." 
As  if  suddenly  smitten  with  an  idea,  she  paused 
with  her  hand  full  of  dishes  and  called  loudly  to 
her  spouse: 

" Watts!    Watts!" 

The  chair  was  eased  to  its  four  legs,  and  the 
lank  form  appeared  in  the  doorway.    "  Yeh?  " 

"How  about  the  sheep  camp?" 

The  man's  fingers  fumbled  at  his  beard  and  he 
appeared  plunged  into  deep  thought.  "What  yo' 
mean,  how  'bout  hit?" 

"Why  not  we-all  leave  Mr.  Sinclair's  darter 
live  up  there?" 

Again  the  thoughtful  silence.  At  length  the 
man  spoke:  "Why,  shore,  she  kin  stay  there 
long  as  she  likes,  an'  welcome." 


Patty  Goes  to  Town  33 

"Hit's  a  cabin  four  mile  up  the  crick,"  explained 
Ma  Watts,  "what  we  built  on  our  upper  desert 
fer  a  man  thet  wanted  to  run  a  band  o'  sheep.  He 
wus  rentin'  the  range  often  us,  till  they  druv  him 
off — the  cattlemen  claimed  they  wouldn't  'low 
no  sheep  in  the  hill  country.  They  warned  him  an* 
pestered  him  a  spell,  an'  then  they  jest  up  an'  druv 
him  off — thet  Vil  Holland  wus  into  hit,  an'  some 
more." 

"Who  is  this  Vil  Holland  you  speak  of,  and  why 
did  he  want  to  drive  off  the  sheep?" 

"Oh,  he's  a  cowpuncher — they  say  they  hain't  a 
better  cowpuncher  in  Montany,  when  he'll  work. 
But  he  won't  work  only  when  he  takes  a  notion — 
'druther  hang  around  the  hills  an'  prospeck.  He 
hain't  never  made  no  strike,  but  he  alius  aims  to, 
like  all  the  rest.  Ef  he'd  settle  down,  he  could 
draw  his  forty  dollars  a  month  the  year  'round, 
'stead  of  which,  he  works  on  the  round-up,  an* 
gits  him  a  stake,  an'  then  quits  an'  strikes  out  fer 
the  hills." 

"  I  couldn't  think  of  occupying  your  cabin  with- 
out paying  for  it.  How  much  will  you  rent  it  to 
me  for?" 

"'Tain't  wuth  nothin'  at  all,"  said  Watts. 
"  'Tain't  doin'  no  good  settin'  wher'  it's  at,  an'  yo' 


34  The  Gold  Girl 

won't  hurt  hit  none  a-livin'  in  hit.  Jest  move  in, 
an*  welcome." 

" No,  indeed!  Now,  you  tell  me,  is  ten  dollars  a 
month  enough  rent?" 

"Ten  dollars  a  month!"  exclaimed  Watts. 
"Why,  we-all  only  got  fifteen  fo'  a  herder  an'  a 
dog  an'  a  band  o'  sheep!  No,  ef  yo'  bound  to  pay, 
I'll  take  two  dollars  a  month.  We-all  might  be  po' 
but  we  hain't  no  robbers." 

" I'll  take  it, "  said  Patty.  "And  now  I'll  have 
to  have  a  lot  of  things  from  town — food  and 
blankets,  and  furniture,  and " 

"Hit's  all  furnished,"  broke  in  Ma  Watts. 
"They's  a  bunk,  an'  a  table,  an'  a  stove,  an'  a 
couple  o'  wooden  chairs." 

"Oh,  that's  fine!"  cried  the  girl,  becoming  real- 
ly enthusiastic  over  the  prospect  of  having  a 
cabin  all  her  very  own.  "But,  about  the  other 
things:  Mr.  Watts  can  you  haul  them  from 
town?" 

Watts  tugged  at  his  beard  and  stared  out  across 
the  hills.  "Yes,  mom,  I  reckon  I  kin.  Le's  see, 
the  work's  a-pilin'  up  on  me  right  smart."  He  cast 
his  eye  skyward,  where  the  sun  shone  hot  from  the 
cloudless  blue.  "Hit  mought  rain  to-morrow,  an* 
hit  moughtn't.    The  front  ex  on  the  wagon  needs 


Patty  Goes  to  Town  35 

fixin' — le's  see,  this  here's  a  Wednesday.  How'd 
next  Sunday,  a  week  do?" 

The  girl  stared  at  him  in  dismay.  Ten  days  of 
Ma  Watts' s  "home  cooking"  loomed  before  her. 

"Oh,  couldn't  you  possibly  go  before  that?"  she 
pleaded. 

"Well,  there's  them  fences.  I'd  orter  hev'  time 
to  study  'bout  how  many  steeples  hit's  a-goin'  to 
tak'  to  fix  'em.  An'  besides,  Ferd  Rowe  'lowed  he 
wus  comin'  'long  some  day  to  trade  hosses  an'  I'd 
hate  to  miss  him." 

"Why  can't  I  go  to  town.  I  know  the  way. 
Will  you  rent  me  your  horses  and  wagon?  I  can 
drive  and  I  can  bring  out  your  tools  and  things, 
too."  As  she  awaited  Watts' s  reply  her  eyes  met 
the  wistful  gaze  of  Microby  Dandeline.  She 
turned  to  Ma  Watts.  "And  maybe  you  would  let 
Microby  Dandeline  go  with  me.  It  would  be  loads 
of  fun." 

"Lawzie,  honey,  yo'  wouldn't  want  to  be 
pestered  with  her." 

"  Yes,  I  would  really.  Please  let  her  go  with  me, 
that  is,  if  Mr.  Watts  will  let  me  have  the  team." 

"Why,  shore,  yo'  welcome  to 'em.  They  hain't 
sich  a  good  span  o'  hosses,  but  they'll  git  yo'  there, 
an'  back,  give  'em  time." 


36  The  Gold  Girl 

"And  can  we  start  in  the  morning?" 

"My!  Yo'  in  a  sight  o'  hurry.  They's  thet 
front  ex " 

"Is  it  anything  very  serious?  Maybe  I  could 
help  fix  it.    Do  let  me  try." 

Watts  rubbed  his  beard  reflectively.  "Well,  no, 
I  reckon  it's  mebbe  the  wheels  needs  greasin'. 
'Twouldn't  take  no  sight  o'  time  to  do,  if  a 
body  could  only  git  at  hit.  Reckon  I  mought 
grease  'em  all  'round,  onct  I  git  started.  The 
young-uns  kin  help,  yo'  jest  stay  here  with  Ma. 
Ef  yo'  so  plumb  sot  on  goin'  we'll  see't  yo'  git  off." 

"I  kin  go,  cain't  I,  Ma?"  Microby  Dandeline's 
eyes  were  big  with  excitement,  as  she  wrung  out 
her  dish  towel  and  hung  it  to  dry  in  the  sun. 

"Why,  yas,  I  reckon  yo'  mought's  well — but 
seem's  like  yo'  alius  a-wantin'  to  gad.  Yo'  be'n 
to  town  twict  a'ready." 

"Twice!"  cried  Patty.    "In  how  long?" 

"  She's  goin'  on  eighteen.  Four  years,  come  July 
she  wus  to  town.    They  wus  a  circust." 

"  I  know  Mr.  Christie.    He  lives  to  town." 

"He's  the  preacher.  He's  a  'piscopalium 
preacher,  an'  one  time  thet  Vil  Holland  an'  him 
come  ridin'  'long,  an'  they  stopped  in  fer  dinner, 
an'  thet  Vil  Holland,  he's  alius  up  to  some  kind  o' 


Patty  Goes  to  Town  37 

devilment  er  'nother,  he  says:  'Ma  Watts,  why 
don't  yo'  hev  the  kids  all  babitized?'  I  hadn't 
never  thought  much  'bout  hit,  but  thar  wus  the 
preacher,  an'  he  seemed  to  think  mighty  proud  of 
hit,  an'  hit  didn't  cost  nothin',  so  I  tol'  him  to  go 
ahead.  He  started  in  on  Microby  Dandeline — we 
jest  called  her  Dandeline  furst,  bein'  thet  yallar 
with  janders  when  she  wus  a  baby,  but  when  she 
got  about  two  year,  I  wus  a  readin'  a  piece  in  a 
paper  a  man  left,  'bout  these  yere  little  microby s 
thet  gits  into  everywheres  they  shouldn't  ort  to, 
jest  like  she  done,  so  I  says  to  Watts  how  she'd 
ort  to  had  two  names  anyways,  only  I  couldn't 
think  of  none  but  common  ones  when  we  give  her 
hern.  I  says,  we'll  name  her  Microby  Dandeline 
Watts  an' Watts, he  didn't  care  one  way  er  t'other." 
Ma  Watts  shifted  the  baby  to  the  other  hip. 
"Babitizin'  is  nice,  but  hit  works  both  ways,  too. 
Take  the  baby,  yere.  When  we'd  got  down  to 
the  bottom  of  the  batch  it  come  her  turn,  an', 
lawzie,  I  wus  that  flustered,  comin'  so  sudden, 
thet  way,  I  couldn't  think  of  no  name  fer  her  'cept 
Chattenoogy  Tennessee,  where  I  come  from  near, 
an'  the  very  nex'  day  I  wus  readin'  in  the  almanac 
an'  I  found  one  I  liked  better.  Watts,  he  hain't 
no  help  to  a  body,  he  hain't  no  aggucation  to  speak 


38  The  Gold  Girl 

of,  an'  don't  never  read  none,  an'  would  as  soon 
I'd  name  his  children  John,  like  his  ma  done  him. 
As  I  wus  sayin'  there  hit  wus  in  the  almanac  the 
name  'twould  of  fitten  the  baby  to  a  T.  Vernal 
Esquimaux,  hit  said,  March  21,  5:26  A.M.  The 
baby  wus  borned  March  the  21st,  'tween  five  an' 
six  in  the  mornin'.  Nex'  time  I  wus  to  town 
I  hunted  up  preacher  Christie,  but  he  said  he 
couldn't  onbabitize  her,  an'  he  reckoned  Chat- 
tenoogy  Tennessee  wus  as  good  as  Vernal  Esqui- 
maux, anyhow,  an'  we  could  save  Vernal  Esqui- 
maux fer  the  next  one — jest's  ef  yo'  could  hev  'em 
like  a  time  table!  " 

The  afternoon  was  assiduously  devoted  to  over- 
hauling the  contents  of  a  huge  tin  trunk  in  an  effort 
to  find  a  frock  suitable  for  the  momentous  occasion 
of  Microby  Dandeline's  journey.  The  one  that 
had  served  for  the  previous  visit,  a  tight  little 
affair  of  pink  gingham,  proved  entirely  inadequate 
in  its  important  dimensions,  and  automatically 
became  the  property  of  the  younger  and  smaller 
Lillian  Russell.  Patty's  suggestion  of  a  simple 
white  lawn  that  reposed  upon  the  very  bottom  of 
the  trunk  was  overruled  in  favor  of  a  betucked  and 
beflounced  creation  of  red  calico  in  which  Ma 
Watts  had  beamed  upon  the  gay  panoply  of  the 


Patty  Goes  to  Town  39 

long  remembered  ' '  circust. ' '  An  hour's  work  with 
scissors  and  needle  reduced  the  dress  to  approxi- 
mately the  required  size.  When  the  task  was 
completed  Watts  appeared  with  the  information 
that  he  reckoned  the  wagon  would  run,  and  that 
the  "young-uns"  were  out  in  the  hills  hunting  the 
"hosses." 

At  early  dawn  the  following  morning  Patty  was 
awakened  by  a  timid  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

"Hit's  daylight,  an'  Pa's  hitchin'  up  the  hosses." 
Arrayed  in  the  red  dress,  her  eyes  round  with 
excitement  and  anticipation,  Microby  Dandeline 
was  bending  over  her  whispering  excitedly,  "An' 
breakfus's  ready,  an'  me  an'  Ma's  got  the  lunch 
putten  up,  an'  hit's  a  pow'ful  long  ways  to  town, 
an'  we  better  git  a-goin'." 

"Stay  right  clost  an'  don't  go  gittin'  lost," 
admonished  Ma  Watts,  as  she  stood  in  the  door- 
way and  surveyed  her  daughter  with  approval 
born  of  motherly  pride.  The  pink  gingham  sun- 
bonnet  that  matched  the  tight  little  dress  had 
required  only  a  slight  "letting  out"  to  make  it 
"do,"  and  taken  in  conjunction  with  the  flaming 
red  dress,  made  a  study  in  color  that  would  have 
delighted  the  heart  of  a  Gros  Ventre  squaw. 
Thick,  home-knit  stockings,  and  a  pair  of  stiff 


40  The  Gold  Girl 

cow-hide  shoes  completed  the  costume,  and  made 
Microby  Dandeline  the  center  of  an  admiring 
semi-circle  of  Wattses. 

11  Yo'  shore  look  right  pert  an'  briggity,  darter," 
admitted  Watts.  "  Don't  yo'  give  the  lady  no 
trouble,  keep  oflen  the  railroad  car  tracks,  an' 
don't  go  talkin'  to  strangers  yo'  don't  know,  an'  ef 
yo'  see  preacher  Christie  tell  him  howdy,  an'  how's 
he  gittin'  'long,  an'  we're  doin'  the  same,  an'  stop 
in  nex'  time  he's  out  in  the  hills."  He  handed 
Patty  the  reins.  "An'  mom,  yo'  won't  fergit  them 
steeples,  an'  a  ax,  an'  a  spade? " 

"I  won't  forget,"  Patty  assured  him,  and  as 
Microby  Dandeline  was  saying  good-by  to  the 
small  brothers  and  sisters,  the  man  leaned  closer. 
"Ef  they's  any  change  left  over  I  wisht  yo'd  give 
her  about  ten  cents  to  spend  jest  as  she  pleases." 

The  girl  nodded,  and  as  Microby  Dandeline 
scrambled  up  over  the  wheel  and  settled  herself 
beside  her  upon  the  board  that  served  as  a  seat, 
she  called  a  cheery  good-by,  and  clucked  to  the 
horses. 

The  trail  down  Monte' s  Creek  was  a  fearsome 
road  that  sidled  dangerously  along  narrow  rock 
ledges,  and  plunged  by  steep  pitches  into  the  creek 
bed  and  out  again.     Partly  by  sheer  luck,  partly 


Patty  Goes  to  Town  41 

by  bits  of  really  skillful  driving,  but  mostly  because 
the  horses  themselves  knew  every  foot  of  the 
tortuous  trail,  the  descent  of  the  creek  was  made 
without  serious  mishap.  It  was  with  a  sigh  of 
relief  that  Patty  turned  into  the  smoother  trail 
that  lead  down  through  the  canyon  toward  town. 
In  comparison  with  the  bumping  and  jolting  of 
the  springless  lumber  wagon,  she  realized  that  the 
saddle  that  had  racked  and  tortured  her  upon  her 
outward  trip  had  been  a  thing  of  ease  and  comfort. 
Released  from  her  post  at  the  brake-rope,  Microby 
Dandeline  immediately  proceeded  to  remove  her 
shoes  and  stockings.  Patty  ventured  remon- 
strance. 

"Hit's  hot  an'  them  stockin's scratches.  'Tain't 
no  good  to  wear  'em  in  the  summer,  nohow,  'cept 
in  town,  an'  I  kin  put  'em  on  when  we  git  there. 
Why  does  folks  wear  'em  in  town?" 

"Why,  because  it  is  nicer,  and — and  people 
couldn't  very  well  go  around  barefooted." 

"I  kin.  I  like  to  'cept  fer  the  prickly  pears. 
Is  they  prickly  pears  in  town?  "  Without  waiting 
for  a  reply  the  girl  chattered  on,  as  she  placed  the 
offending  stockings  within  her  shoes  and  tossed 
them  back  upon  the  hay  with  which  the  wagon- 
box  was  filled.    "I  like  to  ride,  don't  you?   We've 


42  The  Gold  Girl 

got  to  ride  all  day  an'  then  we'll  git  to  town.  We 
goin'  to  sleep  in  under  the  wagon?" 

"Certainly  not!    We  will  go  to  the  hotel." 

"The  hotel,"  breathed  the  girl,  rapturously. 
"An'  kin  we  eat  there  too?  " 

"Yes,  we  will  eat  there,  too." 

"An*  kin  I  go  to  the  store  with  yo'?" 

"Yes." 

Patty's  answers  became  shorter  as  her  attention 
centered  upon  a  horseman  who  was  negotiating 
the  descent  of  what  looked  like  an  impossibly  steep 
ridge. 

"That's  Buck!"  exclaimed  Microby  Dandeline, 
as  she  followed  the  girl's  gaze.  The  rider  com- 
pleted the  descent  of  the  ridge  with  an  abrupt  slide 
that  obscured  him  in  a  cloud  of  dust  from  which 
he  emerged  to  approach  the  trail  at  a  swinging 
trot.  Long  before  he  was  near  enough  for  Patty 
to  distinguish  his  features,  she  recognized  him  as 
her  lone  horseman  of  the  hills.  "  If  it  is  his  inten- 
tion to  presume  upon  our  chance  meeting,"  she 

thought,  "I'll "    The  threat  was  unexpressed 

even  in  thought,  but  her  lips  tightened  and  she 
flushed  hotly  as  she  remembered  how  he  had 
picked  her  up  as  though  she  had  been  a  child  and 
placed  her  in  the  saddle. 


Patty  Goes  to  Town  43 

"Who  did  you  say  he  is?"  she  asked,  with  a 
glance  toward  the  girl  at  her  side. 

"He's  Vil  Holland,  an'  his  hoss's  name  is 
Buck.  I  like  him,  only  sometimes  he  chases  me 
home." 

"Vil  Holland!"  she  exclaimed  aloud,  and  her 
lips  pressed  tighter.  So  this  man  was  Vil  Holland 
— that  Vil  Holland,  everybody  called  him.  The 
man  who  had  chased  an  inoffensive  sheep  herder 
from  the  range,  and  whose  name  stood  for  lawless- 
ness in  the  hill  country!  So  Aunt  Rebecca's  allu- 
sion to  desperate  characters  had  not  been  so  far- 
fetched, after  all.  He  looked  the  part.  Patty's 
glance  took  in  the  vivid  blue  scarf  with  its  fastening 
of  polished  buffalo  horn,  the  huge  revolver  that 
swung  in  its  holster,  and  the  brown  leather  jug 
that  dangled  from  the  horn  of  his  saddle. 

"  Good-mornin' ! "  He  drew  up  beside  the  trail, 
and  the  girl  reined  in  her  horses,  flushing  slightly 
as  she  did  so — she  had  meant  to  drive  past  without 
speaking.  She  acknowledged  the  greeting  with  a 
formal  bow.    The  man  ignored  the  frigidity. 

"  I  see  you  found  Watts' s  all  right." 

"Yes,  thank  you." 

"Well,  if  there  ain't  Microby  Dandeline!  An' 
rigged  out  for  who  throw'd  the  chunk!    Goin'  to 


44  The  Gold  Girl 

town  to  take  in  the  picture  show,  an  all  the  sights, 
I  expect." 

"We're  goin'  to  the  hotel,"  explained  the  girl 
proudly. 

"My  ain't  that  fine!" 

"I  got  a  red  dress." 

"Why  so  you  have.  Seem'  you  mentioned  it,  I 
can  notice  a  shade  of  red  to  it.  An'  that  bonnet 
just  sets  it  off  right.  That'll  make  folks  set  up  an' 
take  notice,  I'll  bet." 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  the  store,  too." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that!"  the  man  drew  a 
half-dollar  from  his  pockets.  "Here,  get  you  some 
candy  an'  take  some  home  to  the  kids." 

Microby  reached  for  the  coin,  but  Patty  drew 
back  her  arm. 

"Don't  touch  that!"  she  commanded  sharply, 
then,  with  a  withering  look  that  encompassed  both 
the  man  and  his  jug,  she  struck  the  horses  with  her 
whip  and  started  down  the  trail. 

"I  could  of  boughten  some  candies,"  complained 
Microby  Dandeline. 

' '  I  will  buy  you  all  the  candy  you  want,  but  you 
must  promise  me  never  to  take  any  money  from 
men — and  especially  from  that  man." 

Microby  glanced  back  wistfully,   and   as   the 


Patty  Goes  to  Town  45 

wagon  rumbled  on  her  eyes  closed  and  her  head 
began  to  nod. 

"Why,  child,  you  are  sleepy!"  exclaimed  Patty, 
in  surprise. 

"Yes,  mom.  I  reckon  I  laid  awake  all  night  a- 
thinkin'  about  goin'  to  town." 

"If  I  were  you  I  would  lie  down  on  the  hay  and 
take  a  nap." 

The  girl  eyed  the  hay  longingly  and  shook  her 
head.    "I  like  to  ride,"  she  objected,  sleepily. 

"You  will  be  riding  just  the  same." 

"Yes  but  we  might  see  somethin'.  Onct  we 
seen  a  nortymobile  without  no  hosses  an'  hit 
squarked  louder'n  a  settin'  hen  an'  went  faster'n 
what  a  hoss  kin  run." 

"You  go  to  sleep  and  if  there  is  anything  to  see 
I'll  wake  you  up.  If  you  don't  sleep  now  you'll 
have  to  sleep  when  you  get  to  town  and  I'm  sure 
you  don't  want  to  do  that." 

* '  No,  mom.  Mebbe  ef  I  hurry  up  an'  sleep  fast 
they  won't  no  nortymobiles  come,  but  if  they  does, 
you  wake  me." 

"I  will,"  promised  Patty,  and  thus  assured  the 
girl  curled  up  in  the  hay  and  in  a  moment  was  fast 
asleep. 

Hour  after  hour  as  the  horses  plodded  along  the 


46  The  Gold  Girl 

interminable  trail,  Patty  Sinclair  sat  upon  the 
hard  wooden  seat,  while  her  thoughts  ranged  from 
plans  for  locating  her  father's  lost  claim,  to  the 
arrangement  of  her  cabin;  and  from  Vil  Holland 
to  the  welfare  of  the  girl,  a  pathetic  figure  as  she 
lay  sprawled  upon  the  hay,  with  her  bare  legs,  and 
the  gray  dust  settling  thickly  upon  her  red  dress 
and  vivid  pink  sunbonnet. 


CHAPTER  IV 


MONK   BETHUNE 


When  the  devil  was  sick,  the  devil  a  monk  would  be, 
When  the  devil  got  well,  the  devil  a  monk  was  he." 


Pippin  Larue  chanted  tipsily,  as  he  strummed 
softly  the  strings  of  a  muffled  banjo.  And  Raoul 
Bethune,  with  the  flush  of  liquor  upon  his  pale 
cheeks,  joined  in  the  laugh  that  followed,  and  re- 
plenished his  glass  from  the  black  bottle  he  had 
contrived  to  smuggle  from  the  hospital  stores  when 
he  had  been  returned  to  his  room  in  the  dormitory. 
And  "Monk"  Bethune  he  was  solemnly  rechris- 
tened  by  the  half-dozen  admiring  satelites  who 
had  foregathered  to  celebrate  his  recovery  from  an 
illness.  All  this  was  long  ago.  Monk  Bethune's 
dormitory  life  had  terminated  abruptly — for  the 
good  of  the  school,  but  the  name  had  fastened  itself 
upon  him  after  the  manner  of  names  that  fit.  It 
followed  him  to  far  places,  and  certain  red-coated 
policemen,  who  knew  and  respected  his  father,  the 
Hudson  Bay  Company's  old  factor  on  Lake  o' 

47 


48  The  Gold  Girl 

God's  Wrath,  hated  him  for  what  he  had  become. 
They  knew  him  for  an  inveterate  gambler  who 
spent  money  freely  and  boasted  openly  of  his 
winnings.  He  was  soft  of  voice  and  mild  of  manner 
and  aside  from  his  passion  for  gambling,  his 
conduct  so  far  as  was  known  was  irreproachable. 
But,  there  were  wise  and  knowing  ones  among 
the  officers  of  the  law,  who  deemed  it  worth  their 
while  to  make  careful  and  unobtrusive  comparison 
between  the  man's  winnings  and  his  expenditures. 
These  were  the  men  who  knew  that  certain  Indians 
were  being  systematically  supplied  with  whisky, 
and  that  there  were  certain  horses  in  Canada 
whose  brands,  upon  close  inspection,  showed  signs 
of  having  been  skillfully  "doctored,"  and  which 
bore  unmistakable  evidence  of  having  come  from 
the  ranges  to  the  southward  of  the  international 
boundary. 

But,  try  as  they  might,  no  slightest  circumstance 
of  evidence  could  they  unearth  against  Bethune, 
who  was  wont  to  disappear  from  his  usual  haunts 
for  days  and  weeks  at  a  time,  to  reappear  smiling 
and  debonaire,  as  unexpectedly  as  he  had  gone. 
Knowing  that  the  men  of  the  Mounted  suspected 
him,  he  laughed  at  them  openly.  Once,  upon  a 
street  in  Regina,  Corporal  Downey  lost  his  temper. 


Monk  Bethune  49 

"You'll  make  a  mistake  sometime,  Monk,  and 
then  it  will  be  our  turn  to  laugh.' ' 

"Oh-ho!  So  until  I  make  a  mistake,  I  am  safe, 
eh?  That  is  good  news,  Downey — good  news! 
Skill  and  luck — luck  and  skill — the  tools  of  the 
gamblers'  trade!  But,  granted  that  sometime  I 
shall  make  a  mistake — shall  lose  for  the  moment, 
my  skill;  I  shall  still  have  my  luck — and  your 
mistakes.  You  are  a  good  boy,  Downey,  but  you'll 
be  a  glum  one  if  you  wait  to  laugh  at  my  mistakes. 
If  I  were  a  chicken  thief  instead  of  a — gambler, 
I  should  fear  you  greatly." 

Downey  recounted  this  jibe  in  the  barracks,  and 
the  officers  redoubled  their  vigilance,  but  the  In- 
dians still  got  their  whisky,  and  new  horses  ap- 
peared from  the  southward. 

When  Monk  Bethune  refused  Ma  Watts' s  in- 
vitation to  dinner,  and  rode  off  down  the 
creek  followed  by  Lord  Clendenning,  the  re- 
fusal did  not  meet  the  Englishman's  unqualified 
approval,  a  fact  that  he  was  not  slow  in  im- 
parting when,  a  short  time  later,  they  made 
noonday  camp  at  a  little  spring  in  the  shelter 
of  the  hills. 

"I  say,  Monk,  what's  this  bally  important  busi- 
ness we've  got  on  hand?"  he  asked,  as  he  adjusted 

4 


50  The  Gold  Girl 

a  refractory  hobble  strap.     "  Seems   to   me  you 
threw  away  an  excellent  opportunity." 

Bethune  grinned.  "  Anything  that  involves  the 
loss  of  a  square  meal,  is  a  lost  opportunity.  You're 
too  beefy,  Clen,  a  couple  of  weeks  on  pilot  bread 
and  tea  always  does  you  good." 

"I  was  thinking  more  of  the  lady." 

"La,  la,  the  ladies!  A  gay  dog  in  your  day — 
but,  you've  had  your  day.  Forget  'em,  Clen, 
you're  fifty,  and  fat." 

"I'm  forty-eight,  and  I  weigh  only  fifteen  stone 
as  I  stand,"  corrected  the  Englishman  solemnly. 
"But  layin'  your  bloody  jokes  aside,  this  particular 
lady  ought  to  be  worth  our  while." 

Bethune  nodded,  as  he  scraped  the  burning 
ends  of  the  little  sticks  closer  about  the  teapot. 
"Yes,  decidedly  worth  while,  my  dear  Clen,  and 
that's  where  the  important  business  comes  in. 
Those  who  live  by  their  wits  must  use  their  wits 
or  they  will  cease  to  live.  I  live  by  my  wits,  and 
you  by  your  ability  to  follow  out  my  directions. 
In  the  present  instance,  we  had  no  plan.  We  could 
only  have  sat  and  talked,  but  talk  is  dangerous — 
when  you  have  no  plan.  Even  little  mistakes  are 
costly,  and  big  ones  are  fatal.  Let  us  go  over  the 
ground,  now  and  check  off  our  facts,  and  then 


Monk  Bethune  51 

we  can  lay  our  plans.' '  As  he  talked,  Bethune 
munched  at  his  pilot  bread,  pausing  at  intervals 
for  a  swallow  of  scalding  tea. 

"In  the  first  place,  we  know  that  Rod  Sinclair 
made  a  strike.  And  we  know  that  he  didn't  file 
any  claim.  Why?  Because  he  knew  that  people 
would  guess  he  had  made  a  strike,  and  that  the 
minute  he  placed  his  location  on  record,  there 
would  be  a  stampede  to  stake  the  adjoining 
claims — and  he  was  saving  those  claims  for  his 
friends." 

"His  strike  may  be  only  a  pocket,"  ventured 
Clendenning. 

"It  is  no  pocket!  Rod  Sinclair  was  a  mining 
man — he  knows  rock.  If  he  had  struck  a  pocket 
he  would  have  staked  and  filed  at  once — and  taken 
no  chances.  I  tell  you  he  went  back  East  to  let 
his  friends  in.     The  fool ! ' ' 

The  Englishman  finished  his  tea,  rinsed  out  his 
tin  cup  in  the  spring,  and  filled  his  pipe.  ' '  And  you 
think  the  girl  has  got  the  description?" 

Bethune  shook  his  head.  "No.  A  map, 
perhaps,  or  some  photographs.  If  she  had  the  de- 
scription she  would  not  have  come  alone.  The 
friends  of  her  father  would  have  been  with  her, 
and  they  would  have  filed  the  minute  they  hit  the 


52  The  Gold  Girl 

country.     It's  either  a  map,  or  nothing  but  his 
word." 

"And  in  either  case  we've  got  a  chance." 
"Yes,"    answered   Bethune,   viciously.      "And 
this  time  we  are  not  going  to  throw  away  our 
chance!"     He  glanced  meaningly  at  the  English- 
man, who  puffed  contentedly  at  his  pipe. 

"Sinclair  was  too  shrewd  to  have  carried  any- 
thing of  importance,  and  there  would  have  been 
blood  on  our  hands.  As  it  is,  we  sleep  good  of 
nights." 

Bethune  gave  a  shrug  of  impatience.  "And  the 
gold  is  still  in  the  hills,  and  we  are  no  nearer  to  it 
than  we  were  last  fall." 

"Yes,  we  are  nearer.  This  girl  will  not  be  as 
shrewd  as  her  father  was  in  guarding  the  secret, 
if  she  has  it.  If  she  hasn't  it  our  chance  is  as  good 
as  hers." 

"And  so  is  Vil  Holland's!  He  believes  Sinclair 
made  a  strike,  and  now  that  Sinclair  is  out  of  the 
way,  you  may  be  sure  he  will  leave  no  stone  un- 
turned to  horn  in  on  it.  The  gold  is  in  these  hills 
and  I'm  going  to  get  it.  If  I  can't  get  it  one  way,  I 
will  get  it  another."  The  quarter-breed  glanced 
about  him  and  unconsciously  lowered  his  voice. 
"However,  one  could  wish  the  girl  had  delayed  her 


Monk  Bethune  53 

visit  for  a  couple  of  weeks.  A  person  slipped  me 
the  word  he  could  handle  about  twenty  head  of 
horses." 

The  Englishman's  face  lighted.  "I  thought  so 
when  you  began  to  dicker  with  Watts  for  his 
pasture.  We'll  get  him  his  bally  horses,  then. 
This  horse  game  I  like,  it's  a  sportin'  game,  and 
so  is  the  whisky  runnin'.  But  I  couldn't  lay  in  the 
hills  and  shoot  a  man,  cold  blooded." 

"And  you've  never  been  a  success,"  sneered 
Bethune.  "You  never  had  a  dollar,  except  your 
remittance,  until  you  threw  in  with  me.  And 
we'd  have  been  rich  now,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you. 
I  tell  you  I  know  Sinclair  carried  a  map! " 

"If  he  had,  we'll  get  it.  And  we  can  sleep  good 
of  nights!" 

"You're  a  fool,  Clen,  with  your  ' sleep  good  of 
nights!'  I  sleep  good  of  nights,  and  I've — "  he 
halted  abruptly,  and  when  he  spoke  again  his 
words  grated  harsh.  "I  tell  you  this  is  a  fang  and 
claw  existence — all  life  is  fang  and  claw.  The 
strong  rip  the  flesh  from  the  bones  of  the  weak. 
And  the  rich  rip  their  wealth  from  the  clutch  of  a 
thousand  poor.  What  a  man  has  is  his  only  so 
long  as  he  can  hold  it.  One  man's  gain  is  another 
man's  loss,  and  that  is  life.    And  it  makes  no  d  'xf er- 


54  The  Gold  Girl 

ence  in  the  end  whether  it~was  got  at  the  point  of 
the  pistol  in  defiance  of  law,  or  whether  it  was  got 
within  the  law  under  the  guise  of  business.  And 
I  don't  need  you  to  preach  to  me  about  what  is 
wrong,  either." 

The  Englishman  laughed.  "I'm  not  preaching, 
Monk.  Anyone  engaged  in  the  business  we're 
in  has  got  no  call  to  preach." 

"We're  no  worse  than  most  of  the  preachers. 
They  peddle  out,  for  money,  what  they  don't 
believe." 

"Heigh-ho!  What  a  good  old  world  you've 
painted  it!  I  hope  you're  right,  and  I'm  not  as 
bad  as  I  think  I  am." 

Bethune  interrupted,  speaking  rapidly  in  the 
outlining  of  a  plan  of  procedure,  and  it  was  well 
toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  when  the  two 
saddled  up  and  struck  off  into  the  hills  in  the 
direction  of  their  camp. 

Twilight  had  deepened  to  dusk  as  Patty  Sin- 
clair pulled  her  team  to  a  standstill  upon  the  rim 
of  the  bench  and  looked  down  upon  the  twinkling 
lights  of  the  little  town  that  straggled  uncertainly 
along  the  sandy  bank  of  the  shallow  river. 

"Hain't  it  grand  lookin'?"  breathed  Microby 


Monk  Bethune  55 

Dandeline  who  sat  decorously  booted  and  stock- 
inged upon  the  very  edge  of  the  board  seat.  ' '  You 
wouldn't  think  they  wus  so  many  folks,  less'n  you 
seen  'em  yers'f.  Wisht  I  lived  to  town,  an*  I 
wisht  they'd  be  a  circust." 

Patty  guided  the  horses  down  the  trail  that 
slanted  into  the  valley  and  crossed  the  half-mile 
of  "flats"  whose  wire  fences  and  long,  clean-cut 
irrigation  ditches  marked  the  passing  of  the  cattle 
country.  A  billion  mosquitoes  filled  the  air  with 
an  unceasing  low-pitched  drone,  and  settled  upon 
the  horses  in  a  close-fitting  blanket  of  gray.  The 
girls  tried  to  fight  off  the  stinging  pests  that  at- 
tacked their  faces  and  necks  in  whirring  clouds. 
But  they  fought  in  vain  and  in  vain  they  endeav- 
ored to  urge  the  horses  to  a  quickening  of  their 
pace,  for  impervious  alike  to  the  sting  of  the 
insects  and  the  blows  of  the  whip,  the  animals 
plodded  along  in  the  unvarying  walk  they  had 
maintained  since  early  morning. 

"This  yere's  the  skeeter  flats,"  imparted  Mi- 
croby,  between  slaps.  "They  hain't  no  skeeters 
in  the  mountains,  mebbe  it's  too  fer,  an'  mebbe 
they  hain't  'nough  folks  fer  'em  to  bite  out  there, 
they's  only  us-uns  an'  a  few  more."  As  the  girl 
talked  the  horses  splashed  into  the  shallow  water 


56  The  Gold  Girl 

of  the  ford  and  despite  all  effort  to  urge  them  for- 
ward, halted  in  mid-stream  and  sucked  greedily 
of  the  crystal-clear  water.  It  seemed  an  hour 
before  they  moved  on  and  assayed  a  leisurely 
ascent  of  the  opposite  bank.  The  air  became 
pungent  with  the  smell  of  smoke.  They  were  in 
town,  now,  and  as  the  wagon  wheels  sank  deeply 
into  the  soft  sand  of  the  principal  street,  Patty 
noted  that  in  front  of  the  doors  of  most  of  the 
houses,  slow  fires  were  burning — fires  that  threw 
off  a  heavy,  stifling  smudge  of  smoke  that  spread 
lazily  upon  the  motionless  air  and  hung  thick  and 
low  to  the  ground. 

"Skeeter  smudges,"  explained  Microby  proud 
of  being  the  purveyor  of  information,  "  towns  has 
'em,  an*  then  the  skeeters  don't  bite.  Oh,  look 
at  the  folks!  Lest  hurry  up!  They  might  be  a 
fight !  Las'  time  they  wus  a  fight  an*  a  breed  cut 
a  man  Pap  know'd  an*  the  man  got  the  breed  down 
an*  stomped  on  his  face  an*  the  marshal  come  an' 
sp'ilt  hit,  an*  the  man  says  if  he'd  of  be'n  let  be 
he'd  of  et  the  breed  up." 

"  My,  what  a  shame!  And  now  you  may  never 
see  a  man  eat  a  breed,  whatever  a  breed  is." 

"A  breed's  half  a  Injun."  Microby  was  stand- 
ing up  on  the  seat  at  the  imminent  risk  of  her  neck, 


Monk  Bethune  57 

peering  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd  that  thronged 
the  sidewalk. 

"Sit  down!"  commanded  Patty,  sharply,  as 
she  noted  the  amused  glances  with  which  those 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  viewed  the  ridic- 
ulous figure  in  the  red  dress  and  the  pink  sun- 
bonnet.  "They  are  waiting  for  the  movie  to 
open." 

"Whut's  a  movie?  Is  hit  like  the  circust?  Kin 
I  go?  "  The  questions  crowded  each  other,  as  the 
girl  scrambled  to  her  seat,  her  eyes  were  big  with 
excitement. 

"Yes,  to-morrow." 

"Looky,  there's  Buck!"  Patty's  eyes  followed 
the  pointing  finger,  and  she  frowned  at  sight  of  the 
rangy  buckskin  tied  with  half  a  dozen  other  horses 
to  the  hitching  rail  before  the  door  of  a  saloon.  It 
seemed  as  she  glanced  along  the  street  that  nearly 
every  building  in  town  was  a  saloon.  Half  a  block 
farther  on  she  drew  to  the  sidewalk  and  stopped 
before  the  door  of  a  two-story  wooden  building  that 
flaunted  across  its  front  the  words  "Montana 
Hotel."  As  Patty  climbed  stiffly  to  the  sidewalk 
each  separate  joint  and  muscle  shrieked  its  aching 
protest  at  the  fifteen-hour  ride  in  the  springless, 
jolting  wagon.    Microby  placed  her  foot  upon  the 


58  The  Gold  Girl 

sideboard  and  jumped,  her  cowhide  boots  thudding 
loudly  upon  the  wooden  planking. 

"Oughtn't  you  stay  with  the  horses  while  I 
make  the  arrangements?  " 

Microby  shook  her  head  in  vigorous  protest. 
"They-all  hain't  a-goin'  nowheres  less'n  they  has 
to.    An'  I  want  to  go  'long." 

A  thick-set  man,  collarless  and  coatless,  who 
tilted  back  in  his  chair  with  his  feet  upon  the 
window  ledge,  glanced  up  indifferently  as  they 
entered  and  crossed  to  the  desk,  and  returned  his 
gaze  to  the  window,  beyond  which  objects  shov/ed 
dimly  in  the  gathering  darkness.  After  a  moment 
of  awkward  silence  Patty  addressed  him.  "Is  the 
proprietor  anywhere  about?" 

"I'm  him,"  grunted  the  man,  without  looking 
around. 

The  girl's  face  flushed  angrily.  "  I  want  a  room 
and  supper  for  two." 

"Nawthin'  doin'.    Full  up." 

"Is  there  another  hotel  in  this  town?"  she 
flashed  angrily. 

"No." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  there  is  no  place 
where  we  can  get  accommodation  for  the  night?  " 

"That's  about  the  size  of  it." 


Monk  Bethune  59 

"  Can't  we  get  anything  to  eat,  either?  "  It  was 
with  difficulty  Patty  concealed  her  rage  at  the 
man's  insolence.  "If  you  knew  how  hungry  we 
are — we've  been  driving  since  daylight  with  only  a 
cold  lunch  for  food."  She  did  not  add  that  the 
cold  lunch  had  been  so  unappetizing  she  had  not 
touched  it. 

"Supper's  over  a  couple  hours,  an'  the  help's 
gone  out." 

"  I'll  pay  you  well  if  you  can  only  manage  to  get 
us  something — we're  starved."  The  girl's  rage 
increased  as  she  noticed  the  gleam  that  lighted  the 
heavy  eyes.  That,  evidently  was  what  he  had 
been  waiting  for. 

"  Well, "  he  began,  but  she  cut  him  short. 

"And  a  room,  too." 

"I'm  full  up,  I  told  you.  The  only  way  might 
be  to  pay  someone  to  double  up.  An'  with  these 
here  cowpunchers  that  comes  high.  I  might — " 
The  opening  of  the  screen  door  drew  all  eyes  to- 
ward the  man  who  entered  and  stood  just  within 
the  room.  As  Patty  glanced  at  the  soft-brimmed 
hat,  the  brilliant  scarf,  and  noticed  that  the  yellow 
lamplight  glinted  upon  the  tip  of  polished  buffalo 
horn,  and  the  ivory  butt  of  the  revolver,  her  lips 
tightened.    But  the  man  was  not  looking  at  her — 


6o  The  Gold  Girl 

seemed  hardly  aware  of  her  presence.  The  burly 
proprietor  smiled. 

"Hello,  Vil.    Somethin'  I  kin  do  fer  you?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  man.  He  spoke  quietly, 
but  there  was  that  in  his  voice  that  caused  the 
other  to  glance  at  him  sharply.  "You  can  stand 
up." 

The  man  complied  without  taking  his  eyes  from 
the  cowboy's  face. 

"I  happened  to  be  goin'  by  an'  thought  I'd 
stop  an'  see  if  I  could  take  the  team  over  to  the 
livery  barn  for  my — neighbors,  yonder.  The  door 
bein'  open,  I  couldn't  help  hearin'  what  you  said." 
He  paused,  and  the  proprietor  grinned. 

"Business  is  business,  an'  a  man's  into  it  fer  all 
he  kin  git." 

"I  suppose  that's  so.  I  suppose  it's  good  busi- 
ness to  lie  an'  cheat  women,  an' " 

"I  hain't  lied,  an'  I  hain't  cheated  no  one.  An' 
what  business  is  it  of  yourn  if  I  did  ?  All  my  rooms 
is  full  up,  an'  the  help's  all  gone  to  the  pitcher 
show." 

"An'  there's  about  a  dozen  or  so  cowmen 
stoppin'  here  to-night — the  ones  you  talked  of 
payin'  to  double  up — an'  there  ain't  one  of  'em 
that  wouldn't  be  glad  to  double  up,  or  go  out  an' 


Monk  Bethune  61 

sleep  on  the  street  if  he  couldn't  get  nowhere  else 
to  sleep,  if  you  even  whispered  that  there  was  a 
lady  needed  his  room.  The  boys  is  right  touchy 
when  it  comes  to  bein'  lied  about." 

The  proprietor's  face  became  suddenly  serious. 
"Aw  looky  here,  Vil,  I  didn't  know  these  parties 
was  friends  of  yourn.  I'll  S2e't  they  gits  'em  a 
room,  an'  I  expect  I  kin  dig  'em  out  some  cold 
meat  an'  trimmin's.  I  was  only  kiddin'.  Can't 
you  take  a  joke?" 

1 '  Yes,  I  can  take  a  joke.  I  'm  only  kiddin' ,  too — 
an'  so '11  the  boys  be,  after  I  tell  'em " 

"They  hain't  no  use  rilin'  the  boys  up.    I " 


"An'  about  that  supper, "  continued  the  cowboy, 
ignoring  the  protest,  "I  guess  that  cold  meat'U 
keep  over.  What  these  ladies  needs  is  a  good  hot 
supper.  Plenty  of  ham  and,  hot  Java,  potatoes, 
an'  whatever  you  got." 

"But  the  help's " 

"Get  it  yourself,  then.  It  ain't  so  long  since 
you  was  runnin'  a  short  order  dump.  You  ain't 
forgot  how  to  get  up  a  quick  feed,  an'  to  give  the 
devil  his  due,  a  pretty  good  one." 

The  other  started  surlily  toward  the  rear.  "I'll 
doit,  if " 

"You  won't  do  it  if  nothin'.     You'll  do  it — 


62  The  Gold  Girl 

that's  all.  An*  you'll  do  it  at  the  regular  price, 
too." 

"Say,  who's  runnin'  this  here  hotel?" 

"You're  runnin'  it,  an'  I'm  tellin'  you  how," 
answered  the  tall  hillman,  without  taking  his  eyes 
from  the  other's  face. 

The  man  disappeared,  muttering  incoherently, 
and  Vil  Holland  turned  to  the  door. 

' '  I  want  to  thank  you, ' '  ventured  Patty.  ' '  Evi- 
dently your  word  carries  weight  with  mine  host." 

"It  better,"  replied  the  cowpuncher,  dryly. 
"An'  you're  welcome.  I'll  take  the  team  across 
to  the  livery  barn."  He  spoke  impersonally,  with 
scarcely  a  glance  in  her  direction,  and  as  the  screen 
door  banged  behind  him  the  girl  flushed,  remember- 
ing her  own  rudeness  upon  the  trail. 

"Lawless  he  may  be,  and  he  certainly  looks  and 
acts  the  part,"  she  murmured  to  herself  as  the 
wagon  rattled  away  from  the  sidewalk,  "but  his 
propensity  for  turning  up  at  the  right  time  and 
the  right  place  is  rapidly  becoming  a  matter  of 
habit."  A  door  beside  the  desk  stood  ajar,  and 
above  it,  Patty  read  the  words  "Wash  Room." 
Pushing  it  open  she  glanced  into  the  interior  which 
was  dimly  lighted  by  a  murky  oil  lamp  that  occu- 
pied a  sagging  bracket  beside  a  distorted  mirror. 


Monk  Bethune  63 

Two  tin  wash  basins  occupied  a  sink-like  contriv- 
ance above  which  a  single  iron  faucet  protruded 
from  the  wall.  Beside  the  faucet  was  tacked  a 
broad  piece  of  wrapping  paper  upon  which  were 
printed  in  a  laborious  scrawl  the  following  appeals : 

NOtiss 

Pies  DoNT  LEEv  THE  WaTTer  RUN  ITS  hAN 

Pumpt. 

PLes  DONT  Waist  THE  ToWL. 

Kome  AN  BREsh  AN  TOOTH  BResH  IS  INto 

THR  Rak  BESIDS  THE  MiRRoW.  PLeS  PUT 

EM  baCK. 

THes  IS  hoUSE  RULes  AN  WANts  TO  be  OBayD 

KINLY. 

F.  RuMMEL,  PROP. 

Removing  the  trail  dust  from  their  faces  and 
hands,  the  girls  returned  to  the  office  and  after  an 
interminable  wait  the  proprietor  appeared,  red- 
faced  and  surly.  "Grub's  on,  an'  yer  room'll  be 
ready  agin  you've  et,"  he  growled,  and  waddled  to 
his  place  at  the  window. 

A  generous  supply  of  ham  and  eggs,  fried  pota- 
toes, bread  and  butter,  and  hot  coffee  awaited 
them  in  the  dining-room,  and  it  seemed  to  Patty 
that  never  before  had  food  tasted  so  good.    Twenty 


64  The  Gold  Girl 

minutes  later,  when  they  returned  to  the  office  the 
landlord  indicated  the  stairway  with  a  jerk  of  his 
thumb.  "  First  door  to  the  right  from  the  top  of 
the  stairs,  lamp's  lit,  extry  blankets  in  the  closet, 
breakfast  from  five  'till  half-past-seven."  The 
words  rattled  from  his  lips  in  a  single  breath  as  he 
sat  staring  into  the  outer  darkness. 

"If  Aunt  Rebecca  could  see  me,  now,"  smiled 
Patty  to  herself,  as  she  led  the  way  up  the  uncar- 
peted  stairs,  with  Microby  Dandeline's  cow-hide 
boots  clattering  noisily  in  her  wake. 


CHAPTER  V 


SHEEP   CAMP 


If  Patty  Sinclair  had  anticipated  annoyance 
from  the  forced  attention  of  her  tall  horseman  of 
the  hills,  she  was  disappointed,  for  neither  at  meals, 
nor  during  the  shopping  tour  that  occupied  the 
whole  of  the  following  day,  nor  yet  upon  the  long 
homeward  drive,  did  he  appear.  The  return  trip 
was  slower  and  more  monotonous  even  than  the 
journey  to  town.  The  horses  crawled  along  the 
interminable  treeless  trail  with  the  heavily  loaded 
wagon  bumping  and  rattling  in  the  choking  cloud 
of  its  own  dust. 

The  expedition  had  been  a  disappointing  one  to 
Microby.  The  "pitcher  show"  did  not  compare 
in  interest  with  the  never  forgotten  "circust." 
There  had  been  no  "fight "  to  break  the  monotony 
of  purchasing  supplies.  And  they  had  encoun- 
tered no  "nortymobiles." 

Despite  the  fact  that  they  had  started  from  town 
s  65 


66  The  Gold  Girl 

at  daylight,  darkness  overtook  them  at  the  canyon 
and  it  was  with  fear  and  misgiving  that  Patty 
contemplated  the  devious  trail  up  Monte's  Creek. 
The  descent  of  this  trail  by  daylight  had  taxed 
the  girl's  knowledge  of  horsemanship  to  the  limit, 
and  now  to  attempt  its  ascent  with  a  heavily 
loaded  wagon  in  the  darkness — Microby  Dande- 
line  seemed  to  read  her  thoughts. 

"  We-all  cain't  git  up  the  crick,  I  don't  reckon," 
she  hazarded,  but  even  as  she  spoke  there  was  a 
flicker  of  light  flashed  through  the  darkness  and, 
lantern  in  hand,  Watts  rose  from  his  comfortable 
seat  in  a  nitch  of  rock  near  the  fork  of  the  trail 
and  greeted  them  with  his  kindly  drawl.  "I 
'lowed  yo'all  ort  to  be  'long  d'rec'ly.  I'll  take  'em 
now,  Miss;  the  trail's  kind  of  roughish  like,  but  ef 
yo'll  jist  take  the  lantern  an'  foller  'long  ahead  I 
reckon  we'll  make  hit  all  right.  I've  druv  hit 
afore  in  the  dark,  an'  no  lantern,  neither."  Taking 
turns  with  the  lantern  the  girls  led  the  way,  and 
an  hour  and  a  half  later  halted  before  the  door  of 
the  Watts  cabin,  where  they  became  the  center  of 
an  admiring  group  of  young  Wattses  who  munched 
their  candy  soberly  as  they  gazed  in  reverent  awe 
at  the  homing  argonauts. 

The  three  mile  walk  up  the  rough  trail  did 


Sheep  Camp  67 

wonders  for  Patty's  stiffened  muscles,  and  it  was 
with  a  feeling  of  agreeable  surprise  that  she  rose 
from  her  shake-down  the  following  morning  with 
scarcely  an  ache  or  a  pain  in  her  body. 

"  Yer  gittin'  bruk  in  to  hit,"  smiled  Ma  Watts, 
approvingly,  as  the  girl  sat  down  to  her  belated 
breakfast.  But  the  surprise  at  her  fit  condition 
was  nothing  to  the  surprise  of  Ma  Watts' s  next 
words.  u  Pa,  he  taken  yer  stuff  on  up  to  the  sheep 
camp.  He  'lowed  yo'd  want  to  git  settled  like. 
They  taken  yer  pa's  outfit  along,  too,  an*  when 
they  git  yo'  onloaded  they're  a-goin'  to  work  on 
the  upper  pasture  fence.  When  Pa  gits  sot  on  a 
thing  he  goes  right  ahead  an'  does  hit.  Some 
thinks  he's  lazy,  but  hit  hain't  thet.  He's  easy 
goin' — all  the  Wattses  wus — but  when  they  git  sot 
on  a  thing  all  kingdom  come  cain't  stop  'em  a- 
doin'  hit.  Trouble  with  Pa  is  he's  got  sot  on 
settin'."  Ma  Watts  talked  on  and  on,  and  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  meal  Patty  drew  a  bill  from  her 
purse.  But  the  woman  would  have  none  of  it. 
"No  siree,  we-all  hain't  a-runnin'  no  hotel.  Folks 
is  welcome  to  come  when  they  like  an'  stay  as  long 
as  they  want  to,  an'  we're  glad  to  hev  'em.  Yer 
cayuse  is  a-waitin'  out  yender.  The  boys  saddled 
him  up  fer  yo'.     Come  down  an'  take  pot  luck 


68  The  Gold  Girl 

whenever  yo're  a  mind.  Microby  Dandeline,  she 
ketched  up  Gee  Dot  an'  went  a-taggin'  'long  f er  to 
help  yo*  git  settled.  Ef  she  gits  in  the  way  jist 
send  her  home.  Foller  up  the  crick,"  she  called, 
as  Patty  mounted  her  horse.  "  Yo'  cain't  miss  the 
sheep  camp,  hit's  about  a  mild  'bove  the  upper 
pasture." 

Watts  and  the  boys  were  just  finishing  the  un- 
loading of  her  supplies  when  Patty  slipped  from 
her  horse  and  surveyed  the  little  cabin  with  its 
dark  background  of  pines. 

"  Hit  hain't  so  big  as  some,"  apologized  the  man, 
as  he  climbed  into  the  wagon  and  gathered  up  the 
reins.  "But  the  chinkin's  tol'ble,  an*  the  roof's 
middlin'  tight  'cept  a  couple  places  wrier'  it  leaks." 

The  girl's  glance  strayed  from  the  little  log 
building  to  the  untidy  litter  of  rusty  tin  cans  and 
broken  bottles  that  ornamented  its  dooryard,  and 
the  warped  and  broken  panels  of  the  abandoned 
corral  that  showed  upon  the  weed-choked  flat 
across  the  creek.  Stepping  to  the  door,  she  peered 
into  the  interior  where  Microby  was  industriously 
sweeping  the  musty  hay  from  the  bunk  with  the 
brand-new  broom.  Thumbed  and  torn  magazines 
littered  the  floor,  a  few  discarded  garments  hung 
dejectedly  from  nails  driven  into  the  wall,  while 


Sheep  Camp  69 

from  the  sagging  door  of  the  rough  board  cupboard 
bulged  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  rubbish.  A 
sense  of  depression  obsessed  her ;  this  was  to  be  her 
home!  She  sneezed  and  drew  back  hastily  from 
the  cloud  of  dust  raised  by  Microby's  broom.  As 
she  dabbed  at  her  eyes  and  nose  with  a  small  and 
ridiculously  inadequate  handkerchief,  she  was 
conscious  of  an  uncomfortable  lump  in  her  throat, 
and  the  moisture  that  dampened  the  handkerchief 
could  not  all  be  accredited  to  the  sneeze  tears. 
"What  if  I  have  trouble  locating  the  mine  and 
have  to  stay  here  all  summer?"  she  was  thinking, 
and  instantly  recalling  the  Watts  ranch  with  its 
air  of  shiftless  decay,  the  smelly  Watts  blankets 
in  the  overcrowded  sleeping  room,  the  soggy  meals, 
the  tapping  of  chickens'  bills  upon  the  floor,  and 
the  never  ending  voice  of  Ma  Watts,  she  smiled. 
It  was  a  weak,  forced  little  smile,  at  first,  but  it 
gradually  widened  into  a  real  smile  as  her  eyes 
swept  the  little  valley  with  its  long  vista  of  pine- 
clad  hills  that  reached  upward  to  the  sky,  their 
mighty  sides  and  shoulders  gored  by  innumerable 
rock-rimmed  coulees  and  ravines.  Somewhere 
amid  the  silence  of  those  mighty  slopes  and  high- 
flung  peaks  her  father  had  found  Eldorado — had 
wrested  nature's  secret  from  the  guardianship  of 


70  The  Gold  Girl 

the  everlasting  hills.  Her  heart  swelled  with  the 
pride  of  him.  She  was  ashamed  of  that  sudden 
welling  of  tears.  The  feeling  of  depression  van- 
ished and  her  heart  throbbed  to  the  lure  of  the 
land  of  gold.  The  two  small  Wattses  had  scrambled 
into  the  wagon-box. 

"Yo'  goin'  to  like  hit,"  announced  Watts, 
noticing  the  smile.     "I  'lowed,  fust-off  yo' " 

"I'm  going  to  love  it!"  interrupted  the  girl 
vehemently.  "My  father  loved  these  hills,  and  I 
shall  love  them.  And,  as  for  the  cabin!  When 
Microby  and  I  get  through  with  it,  it's  going  to 
be  the  dearest  little  place  imaginable." 

"Hit  wus  a  good  sheep  camp,"  admitted  Watts, 
his  fingers  fumbling  judiciously  at  his  head.  "An' 
they's  a  heap  o'  good  feed  goin'  to  waste  in  this 
yere  valley.  But  ef  the  cattlemen  wants  to  pay 
fer  what  they  hain't  gittin'  hit  hain't  none  o'  my 
business,  I  reckon." 

"Why  did  they  drive  the  sheep  out?  Surely, 
there  is  room  for  all  here  in  the  hills." 

"Vil  Holland,  he  claimed  they  cain't  no  sheeps 
stay  in  the  hill  country.  He  claims  sheeps  is  like 
small-poxt.  Onct  they  git  a-goin'  they  spread, 
an'  like's  not,  the  hull  country's  ruint  fer  cattle 
range." 


Sheep  Camp  71 

"It  seems  that  Vil  Holland  runs  this  little 
corner  of  Montana." 

"He  kind  o'  looks  after  things  fer  the  cattlemen, 
but  the  prospectin's  got  into  his  blood,  an'  he 
won't  stick  to  the  cattle,  only  on  the  round-up,  'til 
he  gits  him  a  grub-stake.  He's  a  good  man — 
Vil  is — ef  it  wusn't  fer  foolin'  'round  with  the 
prospectin'." 

Instantly,  the  girl's  eyes  flashed.  "If  it  wasn't 
for  the  prospecting!"  she  exclaimed,  in  sudden 
anger.  "My  father  was  a  prospector — and  there 
was  never  a  better  man  lived  than  he !  Why  is  it 
that  everyone  looks  askance  at  a  prospector?  You 
talk  like  the  people  back  home!  But,  I'll  show 
you  all.  My  father  made  a  strike.  He  told  me  of 
it  on  his  death-bed,  and  he  gave  me  the  map,  and 
the  photographs  and  his  samples.  Maybe  when  I 
locate  this  mine  and  begin  taking  out  more  gold 
every  day  than  most  of  you  ever  saw,  you  won't 
talk  of  people  'fooling  around'  prospecting.  I  tell 
you  prospectors  are  the  finest  men  in  the  world! 
They  must  have  imagination,  and  unending  pa- 
tience, and  the  heart  to  withstand  a  thousand 
disappointments — M  She  broke  off  suddenly  as 
the  soft  rattle  of  bit-chains  sounded  from  behind 
her,  and  whirled  to  face  Vil  Holland.    The  man 


72  The  Gold  Girl 

regarded  her  gravely,  unsmiling.  A  gauntlet ed 
hand  raised  the  Stetson  from  his  head.  As  her 
eyes  took  in  every  detail,  from  the  inevitable 
leather  jug,  to  the  tip  of  polished  buffalo  horn,  she 
flushed.    How  long  had  he  stood  there,  listening? 

The  cowpuncher  seemed  to  divine  her  thoughts. 
"I  just  happened  along,"  he  said  regarding  her 
with  his  steady  blue  eyes.  ' '  I  couldn't  help  hearin' 
what  you  said  about  the  prospectors.  You're 
right  in  the  main." 

"I  was  speaking  of  my  father.  I  am  Rodney 
Sinclair's  daughter." 

The  man  nodded.    "  Yes,  I  know." 

Watts  rubbed  his  chin  apologetically.  "  We- all 
thought  a  right  smart  o'  yo'  pa, ]  didn't  we,  Vil? 
I  didn't  aim  to  rile  yo'." 

"I  know  you  didn't!"  the  girl  smiled.  "And 
thank  you  so  much  for  bringing  my  things  up  so 
early."  She  turned  to  the  cowboy  who  sat  re- 
garding the  outfit  indifferently.  "I  hope  you'll 
overlook  my  lack  of  hospitality,  but  really  I  must 
get  to  work  and  help  Microby  or  she'll  have  the 
whole  house  cleaned  before  I  get  started." 

"I  saw  the  team  here,  an'  thought  I'd  swing 
down  to  find  out  if  Watts  was  movin'  in  another 
sheep  outfit." 


Sheep  Camp  73 

"I've  heard  about  your  driving  away  the  sheep 
man,"  returned  Patty,  with  more  than  a  trace  of 
sarcasm  in  her  tone.  "I  am  moving  into  this 
cabin — am  taking  up  my  father's  work  where  he 
left  off.  I  suppose  I  should  ask  your  permission  to 
prospect  in  the  hill  country." 

"No,"  replied  the  man,  gravely.  "Just  help 
yourself,  only  don't  get  lost,  an'  remember  yer  dad 
knew  enough  to  play  a  lone  hand.  I  must  be 
goin',  now.  Good  day."  He  turned  his  horse  to 
see  Microby  standing  in  the  doorway.  "Hello, 
Microby  Dandeline!  House  cleanin',  eh?  I  s'pect 
you  took  in  the  picture  show  in  town?  " 

"Yes,  but  circusts  is  better.  I  got  some  yallar 
ribbon  fer  my  hat,  an'  a  awful  lot  o'  candies." 

"My,  that's  fine!    How's  ma  an'  the  baby?" 

"They  stayed  hum.  The  baby'd  squall.  Pa  an* 
the  boys  is  goin'  to  mend  fence,  an'  I'm  a-goin'  to 
stay  yere  an'  he'p  her  clean  up  the  sheep  camp." 

The  cowpuncher  turned  to  Watts.  "What's 
the  big  hurry  about  the  fences,  Watts?  You  goin* 
to  take  over  a  bunch  of  stock?" 

"Hosses,"  answered  Watts  with  an  important 
jerk  at  his  scraggly  beard.  "I  done  rented  the 
upper  pasture  to  a  man  name  o'  Schultz  over  in 
Blackfoot  country.     Five  dollars  a  month,  I  git 


74  The  Gold  Girl 

fer  hit,  an'  five  dollars  fer  every  day  er  night  they's 
hosses  in  hit.  He  done  paid  two  months'  rent 
a'ready." 

Vil Holland's  brows  puckered  slightly.  "  Schultz, 
you  say?    Over  in  the  Blackfoot  country?" 

"  Yas,  he's  aimin'  to  trail  hosses  from  there  over 
into  Canady  an'  he  wants  some  pastures  handy." 

"Did  Schultz  see  you  about  it  himself?"  asked 
Vil,  casually. 

"No,  Monk  Bethune;  he  come  by  this  way,  an' 
he  taken  the  pasture  fer  Schultz." 

Patty  noted  an  almost  imperceptible  narrowing 
of  the  cowpuncher's  eyes,  an  expression,  slight  as 
it  was,  that  spoke  disapproval.  The  man' s  attitude 
angered  her.  Here  was  poor  Watts,  about  to 
undertake  the  first  work  he  had  done  in  years, 
judging  by  the  condition  of  the  ranch,  under 
stimulus  of  the  few  dollars  promised  him  by 
Bethune,  and  this  cowboy  disapproved.  "Are 
horses  under  the  ban,  too?"  she  asked  quickly. 
"Hasn't  Mr.  Watts  the  right  to  rent  his  land  for 
ahorse  pasture?" 

The  man's  answer  seemed  studiously  rude  in  its 
direct  brevity.  "No,  horses  ain't  under  the  ban. 
Yes,  Watts  can  rent  his  land  where  he  wants  to. 
Good  day."    Before  the  girl  could  reply  he  reined 


Sheep  Camp  75 

his  horse  abruptly  about,  and  disappeared  in  the 
timber  upon  the  opposite  side  of  the  creek. 

"Reckon  I  better  be  gittin'  'long,  too,"  said 
Watts.  "Microby's  welcome  to  stay  an*  he'p  yo'- 
all  git  moved  in,  but  please  mom,  to  see't  she  gits 
started  fer  hum  'fore  dark.  Hit  takes  thet  ol* 
pinto  'bout  a  hour  to  make  the  trip." 

Patty  promised,  and  unsaddling,  picketed  her 
horse,  and  joined  the  girl  in  the  dusty  interior  of 
the  cabin.  The  musty  hay,  the  discarded  garments,  • 
and  the  two  bushels  or  more  of  odds  and  ends  with 
which  the  pack  rats  had  filled  the  cupboard  .made 
a  smudgy,  smelly  bonfire  beside  which  Patty 
paused  with  an  armful  of  discarded  magazines. 
c '  Wouldn't  you  like  to  take  these  home  ? ' '  she  asked. 

"Which?"  inquired  Microby,  deftly  picking  a 
small  stick  from  the  ground  with  her  bare  toes  and 
tossing  it  into  the  fire. 

"These  magazines.  There  are  stories  and 
pictures  in  them." 

"No,  I  don't  want  none.  We-alls  cain't  read, 
'cept  Ma,  an'  she's  got  a  book — an'  a  bible,  too," 
she  added,  with  a  touch  of  pride.  "  Davey,  he  kin 
mos'  read,  an'  he  kin  drawer  pitchers,  too.  Reckon 
he'll  be  a  preacher  when  he's  grow'd  up,  like 
Preacher  Christie.     He  done  read  outen  a  book 


76  The  Gold  Girl 

when  he  babitized  us-ims.  I  don't  like  to  read. 
Ma,  she  aimed  to  learn  me  onct,  but  I'd  ruther 
shuck  beans." 

"Maybe  you  didn't  keep  at  it  long  enough," 
suggested  Patty. 

"Yes,  we  did!  We  kep'  at  hit  every  night  fer 
two  nights  'til  hit  come  bedtime.  I  cain't  learn 
them  letters — they's  too  many  diffe'nt  ones,  an* 
all  mixed  up." 

Patty  smiled,  but  she  did  not  toss  the  magazines 
into  the  fire.  Instead  she  laid  them  aside  with 
the  resolve  that  when  opportunity  afforded,  she 
would  carry  on  the  interrupted  education. 
i  Microby's  literary  delinquency  in  no  wise  im- 
paired her  willingness  to  work.  She  had  inherited 
none  of  her  father's  predilection  toward  eternal 
rest,  and  all  day,  side  by  side  with  Patty,  she 
scraped,  and  scoured,  and  scrubbed,  and  washed, 
until  the  little  cabin  and  its  contents  fairly  radiated 
cleanliness.  The  moving  in  was  great  fun  for  the 
mountain  girl.  Especially  the  unpacking  of  the 
two  trunks  that  resisted  all  efforts  to  lift  them  until 
their  contents  had  been  removed.  But  at  last  the 
work  was  finished  even  to  the  arrangement  of 
dishes  and  utensils,  the  stowing  of  supplies,  and 
the  blowing  up  of  the  air  mattress  that  replaced 


Sheep  Camp  77 

the  musty  hay  of  the  sheep  herder.  And  as  the 
long  shadows  of  mountains  crept  slowly  across  the 
little  valley  and  began  to  climb  the  opposite  slope, 
Patty  stood  in  the  door  of  her  cabin  and  watched 
Microby  mount  the  superannuated  Indian  pony 
and  proceed  slowly  down  the  creek,  her  bare  feet 
swinging  awkwardly  in  the  loops  of  rope  that 
served  as  stirrups  of  her  dilapidated  stock  saddle. 

When  horse  and  rider  disappeared  into  a  grove 
of  cottonwoods,  Patty's  gaze  returned  to  her 
immediate  surroundings — her  saddle-horse  con- 
tentedly snipping  grass,  the  waters  of  the  shallow 
creek  burbling  noisily  over  the  stones,  the  untidy 
scattering  of  tin  cans,  and  the  leaning  panels  of  the 
old  sheep  corral.  She  frowned  at  the  panels.  "I'll 
just  use  you  for  firewood,"  she  muttered.  "And 
that  reminds  me  that  I've  got  to  wake  up  to  my 
responsibility  as  head  of  the  household — even  if 
the  household  does  only  consist  of  one  bay  cayuse, 
named  Dan,  and  a  tiny  one-room  cabin,  and  two 
funny  little  squirrel-tailed  pack  rats,  and  me." 
She  reached  for  her  brand  new  ax,  and  picking 
her  way  from  stone  to  stone,  crossed  the  creek, 
and  attacked  a  sagging  panel. 

Patty  Sinclair  was  no  hot-house  flower,  and  the 
hand  that  gripped  the  ax  was  strong  and  brown 


78  The  Gold  Girl 

and  capable.  Back  home  she  had  been  known  to 
the  society  reporters  as  "an  out-door  girl,"  by 
which  it  was  understood  that  rather  than  afternoon 
auction  at  henfests,  she  affected  tennis,  golf, 
swimming,  and  cross-country  riding.  She  could 
saddle  her  own  horse,  and  paddle  a  canoe  for  hours 
on  end.  Even  the  ax  was  no  stranger  to  her  hand, 
for  upon  rare  occasions  when  her  father  had  re- 
turned during  the  summer  months  from  his  ever- 
lasting prospecting,  he  had  taken  her  to  camp  in 
the  mountains,  and  there  from  the  quiet  visionary 
whom  she  loved  more  than  he  ever  knew,  she 
learned  the  ax,  and  the  compass,  and  a  hundred 
tricks  of  camp  lore  that  were  to  stand  her  well  in 
hand.  Partly  inherited,  partly  acquired  through 
association  with  her  father  upon  those  never-to-be- 
forgotten  pilgrimages  to  the  shrine  of  nature,  her 
love  of  the  vast  solitudes  shone  from  her  uplifted 
eyes  as  she  stood  for  a  moment,  ax  in  hand,  and 
let  her  gaze  travel  slowly  from  the  sun-gilded 
peaks  of  the  mountains,  down  their  darkening 
sides,  to  the  dusk-enshrouded  reaches  of  her  valley. 
"He  used  to  watch  the  sun  go  down,  and  he  never 
wearied  at  the  wonder  of  it,"  she  breathed,  softly. 
"And  then,  as  the  darkness  deepened  and  the  bull- 
bats  came  wheeling  overhead,  and  the  whip-poor- 


Sheep  Camp  79 

wills  began  calling  from  the  thickets,  he  would 
light  his  pipe,  and  I  would  cuddle  up  close  to  him, 
and  the  firelight  would  grow  redder  and  brighter 
and  the  soft  warm  dark  would  grow  blacker.  The 
pine  trees  would  lose  their  shapes  and  blend  into 
the  formless  night  and  mysterious  shadow  shapes 
would  dance  to  the  flicker  of  the  little  flames.  It 
was  then  he  would  talk  of  the  things  he  loved;  of 
quartz,  and  drift,  and  the  mother  lode;  of  storms, 
and  bears,  and  the  scent  of  pines ;  of  reeking  craters, 
parched  deserts,  ice-locked  barrens,  and  the  wind- 
lashed  waters  of  lakes.  'And  some  day,  little 
daughter,'  he  would  say,  'some  day  you  are  going 
with  daddy  and  see  all  these  things  for  yourself — 
things  whose  grandeur  you  have  never  dreamed. 
It  won't  be  long,  now — I'm  on  th  right  track  at 
last — only  till  I've  made  my  strike.'  Always — 
1  it  won't  be  long  now.'  Always — '  I'm  on  the  right 
track,  at  last.'  Always — 'just  ahead  is  the  strike' 
— that  lure,  that  mocking  chimera  that  saps  men's 
lives!  And  now,  he  is — gone,  and  I  am  chasing 
the  chimera."  Salt  tears  stung  her  eyes  and 
blurred  the  timbered  slopes.  "They  said  he  was  a 
— a  ne'er-do-well.  He  became  almost  a  joke — " 
the  words  ended  in  a  dry  sob,  as  the  bright  blade 
of  the  ax  crashed  viciously  into  the  rotting  panel. 


8o  The  Gold  Girl 

A  few  moments  later  she  picked  up  an  armful  of 
wood,  and  retracing  her  steps,  piled  it  neatly  behind 
the  stove.  She  lighted  the  fire,  fetched  a  pail  of 
water  from  the  spring,  and  moved  the  picketed 
cayuse  to  a  spot  beside  the  creek  where  the  grass 
was  green  and  lush.  She  had  intended  after  supper 
to  study  her  map  and  familiarize  herself  with  the 
two  small  photographs  that  were  pinned  to  it. 
But,  when  the  meal  was  over  and  the  dishes  washed 
and  put  away  'she  was  too  sleepy  to  do  anything 
but  drop  the  huge  wooden  bar  that  the  sheep 
herder  had  contrived  to  insure  himself  against  a 
possible  night  attack  from  his  enemies  into  its 
place  and  crawl  into  her  bunk.  How  good  it  felt, 
she  thought,  sleepily — the  yielding  air  mattress, 
and  the  soft,  clean  blankets,  after  the  straw  tick 
on  the  floor,  and  the  coarse  sour  blankets  in  the 
Wattses'  stuffy  room. 

Somewhere,  way  off  in  the  hills,  a  wolf  howled 
and  almost  before  the  sound  had  died  away  the 
girl  was  asleep. 


CHAPTER  VI 


BETHUNE   PAYS  A  CALL 


It  was  past  noon  when  Patty  sank  into  the  chair 
beside  her  table  and  glanced  about  her  with  a  sigh 
of  satisfaction.  Warm  June  sunlight  streamed 
through  the  open  door  and  lay  in  a  bright  oblique 
patch  upon  the  scrubbed  floor.  The  girl's  glance 
strayed  past  the  door  and  rested  with  approval 
upon  the  little  flat  across  the  creek  where  a  neat 
pile  of  panels  replaced  the  broken  sheep  corral. 
She  had  spent  hours  in  untwisting  the  baling  wire 
with  which  they  had  been  fastened  to  the  posts 
and  dragging  them  to  the  pile,  and  other  hours  in 
chopping  a  supply  of  firewood,  and  picking  up  the 
cans  and  broken  bottles  and  pitching  them  into 
the  deep  ravine  of  a  side  coulee.  Also  she  had 
built  a  little  reservoir  of  rocks  about  her  spring, 
and  had  found  time  to  add  a  few  touches  to  the 
interior  of  the  cabin.  "It's  just  as  homey  and 
cozy  as  it  can  be,"  she  murmured,  as  her  eyes 

6  81 


82  The  Gold  Girl 

strayed  from  the  little  window  where  the  colored 
chintz  curtain  stirred  lightly  in  the  breeze,  to  the 
neatly  arranged  "dressing  table"  that  she  had 
contrived  with  the  aid  of  four  light  packing  boxes 
and  a  bit  of  figured  cretonne.  Another  packing 
case,  covered  to  match,  served  as  a  stool,  and  upon 
the  wall  above  the  table  hung  a  small  mirror. 
Four  or  five  prints,  looking  oddly  out  of  place,  hung 
upon  the  dark  log  walls — pictures  that  had  always 
hung  in  her  room  at  Aunt  Rebecca's,  and  which 
she  had  managed  to  crowd  into  one  of  the  trunks. 
A  fond  imagination  had  pictured  them  adorning 
the  walls  of  her  "apartment"  which  was  to  be 
located  in  a  spacious  wing  of  the  great  Watts 
ranch  house.  "  I  don't  care,  I'm  glad  there  wasn't 
any  big  ranch  house,"  she  muttered.  "It's  lots 
nicer  this  way,  and  I'm  absolutely  independent. 
We  prospectors  can't  hope  to  be  regular  in  our 
habits — and  I've  always  wanted  a  house  of  my 
very  own.  Ten  times  better!"  she  exclaimed 
vehemently.  "There  won't  be  anybody  to  ask 
me  every  day  or  two  if  I've  made  my  strike  yet? 
And  how  much  gold  I  brought  back  to-day?  And 
all  the  other  fool  questions  that  seem  so  humorous 
to  questioners  and  hearers,  but  which  hurt  and 
sting  and  rankle  when  you're  sick  at  heart  with 


Bethune  Pays  a  Call  83 

disappointment,  and  gritting  your  teeth  to  keep 
up  your  courage  and  your  belief  in  yourself.  Oh 
I  know!  Daddy  didn't  know  I  knew,  but  I  did — 
how  it  hurt  when  the  village  wits  would  slyly  wink 
at  each  other  as  they  asked  their  cruel  questions. 
Even  when  I  was  a  little  girl  I  knew,  and  I  could 
have  killed  them!"  Her  glance  rested  upon  the 
canvas  covered  pack  that  lay  in  the  corner  at  the 
foot  of  the  bunk.  "There  are  his  things — his  out- 
fit, they  call  it  here.  I'm  going  to  examine  it." 
The  sack  of  stiff  oiled  canvas,  with  its  contents, 
was  heavy,  but  the  girl  dragged  it  to  the  middle  of 
the  floor  and  squatting  beside  it,  stared  in  dismay 
at  the  stout  padlock  and  the  chain  that  threaded  a 
set  of  grommets.  She  was  about  to  search  for 
the  key  among  the  contents  of  her  father's  pockets 
which  she  had  placed  in  the  tray  of  her  trunk,  when 
her  eye  fell  upon  a  thin  slit  close  along  the  edge 
of  the  hem  that  held  the  grommets — a  slit  that, 
pulled  wide,  disclosed  an  aperture  through  which 
the  contents  of  the  sack  could  be  easily  removed 
but  withal  so  cunningly  contrived  as  to  escape 
casual  inspection.  With  an  angry  exclamation 
the  girl  stared  at  the  gaping  hole.  ' '  Someone  has 
cut  it !' '  she  cried.  ' '  He  doesn't  seem  to  have  taken 
much,  though.     It's  about  as  full  as  it  can  be." 


84  The  Gold  Girl 

She  began  hurriedly  to  remove  the  contents,  piling 
them  about  her  upon  the  floor.  "I  wonder  if — if 
he  left  any  papers,  or  note  books,  or  maps,  or 
things  that  would  enable  anyone  to  locate  the 
claim?  If  he  did,"  she  muttered,  peering  into  the 
empty  sack,  "they're  gone,  now." 

One  by  one,  she  returned  the  belongings,  han- 
dling them  tenderly,  now,  and  examining  them 
lovingly,  and  many  an  article  was  returned  to 
the  sack,  wet  with  its  splash  of  hot  tears.  "Here's 
his  coffee  pot,  and  his  plate,  and  frying  pan,  and  his 
old  pipe — "  the  pipe  she  did  not  replace,  but  put 
it  with  the  other  things  in  her  trunk.  '  'And  here — 
why,  it's  a  revolver  and  a  belt  of  cartridges — like 
Vil  Holland's!  And  a  hat  like  his,  too!  And  I 
thought  he  was  a  desperado  because  he  wore 
them!"  She  jumped  to  her  feet  and,  hurrying  to 
the  mirror,  tried  on  the  hat,  pinching  the  crown 
into  a  peak,  tilting  it  this  way  and  that,  and 
arranging  and  rearranging  the  soft  roll  brim.  "It 
fits!"  she  cried,  delighted  as  a  child,  and  then  with 
eyes  sparkling,  picked  up  the  belt  with  its  row  of 
yellow  cartridges  and  its  ivory  handled  six  gun 
dangling  in  the  holster.  Buckling  the  belt  about 
her  waist,  she  laughed  aloud  as  the  buckle  tongue 
came  to  rest  a  full  six  inches  beyond  the  last  hole. 


Bethune  Pays  a  Call  85 

"111  look  just  as  desperate  as  he  does,  now — 
except  for  his  old  jug.  Daddy  didn't  have  any 
jug,  and  I'm  glad — that's  where  the  difference  is — 
it's  the  jug.  But,  I  wish  he  had  had  one  of  those 
black  horn  effects  for  his  scarf."  She  knotted  the 
brilliant  red  scarf  with  its  zigzag  border  of  yellow, 
about  her  neck,  and  snatching  a  small  pair  of 
scissors  from  the  dressing  table,  removed  the 
heavy  belt,  and  proceeded  to  bore  a  tongue  hole 
at  the  point  she  had  marked  with  her  finger  nail. 
So  engrossed  she  became  in  the  work,  that  she 
failed  to  hear  the  approach  of  horses'  feet,  and 
started  violently  at  the  sound  of  a  voice  from  the 
doorway.  ' '  Permit  me. ' '  The  six  shooter  thudded 
to  the  floor,  and  sweeping  the  hat  from  his  head, 
Monk  Bethune  crossed  the  room,  and  replaced  it 
upon  the  table.  He  smiled  as  he  noticed  the  scar 
left  upon  the  thick  leather  by  the  scissor  points; 
and  repeated.  ''Permit  me,  please."  He  drew  a 
penknife  from  his  pocket,  and  picked  up  the  belt. 
"A  knife  is  so  much  better." 

Ashamed  of  having  been  startled,  Patty  smiled. 
"  Yes,  please  do.  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  tough,  or 
that  scissors  could  be  so  dull." 

Deftly  twirling  the  penknife,  Bethune  bored  a 
neat  hole  in  the  leather.    ' '  There  should  be  several 


86  The  Gold  Girl 

holes,"  he  smiled,  "for  there  are  occasions  in  the 
hill  country  when  one  fails  to  connect  with  the 
commissary,  and  then  it  is  that  the  tightening  of 
the  belt  answers  the  purpose  of  a  meal."  Drilling 
as  he  talked,  he  soon  finished  the  task  and  held  up 
the  belt  for  inspection.  "Rod  Sinclair's  gun," 
he  commented,  sorrowfully.  "And  Rod's  scarf, 
and  hat,  too.  Ah,  there  was  a  man,  Miss  Sin- 
clair! I  doubt  if  even  you  yourself  knew  him  as  I 
knew  him.  You  must  ride  and  work  with  a  man, 
in  fair  weather  and  foul ;  you  must  share  his  hard- 
ships, and  his  disappointments,  yes  and  his  joys, 
too,  to  really  know  him."  A  look  of  genuine 
affection  shone  from  the  man's  eyes  as  he  stood 
drawing  his  fingers  gently  along  the  rims  of  the 
shiny  cartridges.  He  seemed  to  be  speaking  more 
to  himself  than  to  the  girl.  His  manner,  the  look 
in  his  eyes,  the  very  tone  of  his  voice,  were  so 
intrinsically  honest  in  their  expression  of  un- 
bounded sympathy  with  his  subject,  and  his  mood 
fitted  so  thoroughly  with  her  own,  that  the  girl's 
heart  suddenly  warmed  toward  this  man  who  spoke 
so  feelingly  of  her  father.  She  flushed  slightly  as 
she  remembered  that  upon  the  occasion  of  their 
previous  meeting,  his  words  had  engendered  a 
feeling  of  distrust. 


Bethune  Pays  a  Call  87 

"You  knew  him — well?"  she  asked. 

"  Like  a  brother.  For  two  years  we  have  worked 
together  in  our  search  for  the  mother  lode  that 
both  believed  lay  concealed  deep  within  the  bosom 
of  these  hills.  A  dozen  times  during  those  two 
years  our  hopes  have  risen,  as  only  the  hopes  can 
rise,  of  those  who  seek  gold.  A  dozen  times  it 
seemed  certain  that  at  last  we  had  reached  our 
goal.  But,  always  it  was  the  same — a  false  lead — 
shattered  hopes — and  a  fresh  start.  Those  were 
the  times,  Miss  Sinclair,  that  your  father  showed 
the  stuff  that  was  in  him.  He  was  a  better  man 
than  I.  It  was  his  Spartan  acceptance  of  dis- 
appointment, his  optimism,  and  his  unshaken 
faith  in  ultimate  success,  that  kept  me  going.  I 
suppose  it  is  my  French  ancestry  that  is  respon- 
sible for  my  lack  of  just  the  qualities  that  made 
your  father  the  man  he  was.  I  lacked  his  stability 
— his  balance.  I  had  imagination — vision,  possi- 
bly greater  than  his.  And  under  the  stimulus  of 
apparent  success,  my  spirits  would  rise  to  heights 
his  never  knew.  But  I  paid  for  it — no  one  knows 
how  bitterly  I  paid.  For  when  apparent  success 
turned  into  failure,  mine  were  depths  of  despair 
he  never  descended  to.  At  first,  before  I  learned 
that  his  disappointment  was  as  bitter  as  my  own, 


88  The  Gold  Girl 

his  smiling  acceptance  of  failure,  used  to  goad  me 
to  fury.  There  were  times  I  could  have  killed 
him  with  pleasure — but  that  was  only  at  first. 
Before  we  had  been  long  together  God  knows  how 
I  came  to  depend  on  those  smiles.  Then,  at  last, 
we  struck  it — and  poor  Rod — "  The  man's  voice 
which  had  dropped  very  low,  broke  suddenly.  He 
cleared  his  throat  and  turning  abruptly,  stared  out 
the  door  toward  the  green  sweep  of  pines  on  the 
mountain  slopes. 

There  was  a  long  silence  during  which  the  words 
kept  repeating  themselves  in  the  girl's  brain. 
"  Then,  at  last,  we  struck  it, "  What  did  he  mean? 
His  back  was  toward  her,  and  she  saw  that  the 
muscles  of  his  neck  worked  slowly,  as  though  he 
were  swallowing  repeatedly. 

When  at  last  she  spoke,  her  voice  sounded 
strangely  dull  to  her  own  ears.  "Do  you  mean 
that  you  and  my  father  were  partners,  and  that 
you  know  the  location  of  his  mine?  " 

Bethune  faced  her,  laying  the  belt  gently  upon 
the  table.  "Partners?"  He  repeated  the  word  as 
though  questioning  himself.  "Hardly  partners, 
I  should  say.  We  were — it  is  hard  to  define  the 
exact  relationship  that  existed  between  Rod  Sin- 
clair and  me.    There  was  never  any  agreement  of 


Bethune  Pays  a  Call  89 

partnership,  rather  a  sort  of  tacit  understanding, 
that  when  we  struck  the  lode,  we  should  work  it 
together.  Your  father  knew  vastly  more  about 
rock  than  I,  although  I  had  long  suspected  the 
existence  of  this  lode.  But  extensive  interests  to 
the  northward  prevented  me  from  making  any 
continued  search  for  it.  However,  I  found  time 
at  intervals  to  spend  a  month  or  six  weeks  in  these 
hills,  and  it  was  upon  one  of  these  occasions  that 
we  struck  up  the  acquaintance  that  ripened  into  a 
sort  of  mutuality  of  interest.  Neighbors  are  few 
and  far  between  in  the  hill  country,  and  those  not 
exactly  of  the  type  that  attract  men  of  education. 
I  think  each  found  in  the  other  a  man  of  his  own 
stripe,  and  thus  a  friendship  sprang  up  between 
us  that  gradually  led  to  a  merging  of  interests. 
His  were  by  far  the  most  valuable  activities  in  the 
field,  while  I,  from  time  to  time,  advanced  certain 
funds  for  the  carrying  on  of  the  work. 

"But  let  us  not  talk  of  business  matters.  Time 
enough  for  that."  He  stepped  to  the  doorway  and 
glanced  down  the  creek.  "Here  comes  Clen  and 
we  must  be  going.  While  he  stopped  at  Watts's 
to  reset  a  shoe  I  rode  on  to  inquire  if  there  is  any 
way  in  which  I  may  serve  the  daughter  of  my 
friend. 


90  The  Gold  Girl 

"Oh-ho!  I  see  Clen  is  carrying  something  very 
gingerly.  He  has  prevailed  upon  the  good  Mrs. 
Watts  to  sell  him  some  eggs.  A  great  gourmand — 
but  a  good  fellow  at  heart.  I  think  a  great  deal  of 
Clen,  even  though  it  was  he  who " 

"But  tell  me,  before  you  go,"  interrupted  the 
girl.  "Do  you  know  the  location  of  my  father's 
mine?" 

Bethune  turned  from  the  door,  smiling.  Patty 
noticed  with  surprise  that  the  dark,  handsome 
features  looked  almost  boyish  when  he  smiled. 
There  had  been  no  hint  of  boyishness  before,  in 
fact  something  of  baffling  inscrutability  in  the 
black  eyes,  gave  the  man  an  expression  of  extreme 
sophistication.  "Do  not  call  it  a  mine,"  he 
laughed.  "At  least,  not  yet.  A  mine  is  a  going 
proposition.  If  your  father  actually  succeeded  in 
locating  the  lode,  it  is  a  strike.  Had  he  filed,  it 
would  be  a  claim.  Had  he  started  operation  it 
would  be  a  proposition — but  not  until  there  is  ore 
on  the  dump  will  it  be  a  mine." 

"If  he  actually  succeeded!"  cried  Patty.  "I 
thought  you  said " 

The  man  interrupted  with  a  wave  of  the  hand. 
"So  I  did,  for  I  believe  he  did  succeed.  In  fact, 
knowing  Rod  Sinclair  as  I  did,  I  am  certain  of  it." 


Bethune  Pays  a  Call  91 

"But  the  location  of  the — the  strike,"  she  per- 
sisted, "do  you  know  it?" 

Bethune  shook  his  head  sadly.  "Had  your 
father  filed  the  claim,  all  would  have  been  well. 
But,  who  am  I  to  question  Rod's  judgment?  For 
on  the  other  hand,  if  he  had  filed,  word  of  the  strike 
would  have  spread  broadcast,  and  the  whole  hill 
country  would  immediately  have  been  overrun 
by  stampeders — those  vultures  that  can  scent  a 
gold  strike  for  five  thousand  miles.  No  one  knows 
where  they  come  from,  and  no  one  knows  where 
they  go.  It  was  to  guard  our  secret  from  these  that 
prompted  your  father  not  to  file.  We  had  planned 
to  establish  our  friends  on  the  adjoining  claims, 
and  thus  build  up  a  syndicate  of  our  own  choosing. 
So  he  did  not  file,  but  it  was  through  no  fault  of  his 
that  I  remain  ignorant  of  the  location,  but  rather 
it  was  the  result  of  a  combination  of  unforseen 
circumstances.    You  shall  judge  for  yourself. 

"I  was  deep  in  the  wilds  of  British  Columbia, 
upon  another  matter,  when  Rod  unearthed  the 
lode,  and,  not  knowing  this,  he  hastened  at  once 
to  my  camp.  He  found  Clen  there  and  after 
expressing  disappointment  at  my  absence,  sat 
down  and  hurriedly  sketched  a  map,  and  taking 
from  his  pocket  a  photograph,  he  wrapped  both 


92  The  Gold  Girl 

in  a  piece  of  oilskin,  and  handed  them  to  Clen, 
with  instructions  to  travel  night  and  day  until  he 
had  delivered  the  packet  to  me.  He  told  him 
that  he  had  located  the  lode  and  was  hurrying 
East  to  procure  the  necessary  capital  and  would 
return  in  the  early  spring  for  immediate  operation." 
Bethune  paused  and,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  Eng- 
lishman who  was  dismounting,  continued: 

"Poor  Clen!  He  did  his  best,  and  I  do  not  hold 
his  failure  against  him,  for  his  was  a  journey  of 
hardship  and  peril  such  as  few  men  could  have 
survived.  Upon  receiving  the  packet  he  started 
within  the  hour.  That  night  he  camped  at  the 
line,  and  that  night,  too,  came  the  first  snow  of  the 
season.  He  labored  on  next  day  to  the  railway  and 
took  a  train  to  Edmonton,  and  from  there,  to  Fort 
George,  where  he  succeeded  in  procuring  an  Indian 
guide  for  the  dash  into  the  wilderness  beyond  the 
railway.  The  early  months  of  last  winter  were 
among  the  most  terrible  in  the  history  of  the  North. 
Storm  after  storm  hurtled  out  of  the  Arctic,  and 
between  storms  the  bitter  winds  from  the  barrens 
to  the  eastward  roared  with  unabated  fury.  Yet 
Clen  and  his  guide  pushed  on,  fighting  the  cold 
and  the  snow.  Up  over  the  Height  of  Land,  to  the 
Hudson  Bay  Post  at  the  head  of  the  Parsnip, 


Bethune  Pays  a  Call  93 

where  I  was  making  my  headquarters,  and  where 
I  had  lain  snowbound  for  ten  days.  It  was  during 
the  descent  of  Crooked  River,  a  quick  water, 
treacherous  stream,  whose  thin  ice  was  covered 
with  snow,  that  the  accident  happened  that  cost 
me  the  loss  of  the  location,  and  nearly  cost  Clen 
his  life.  The  Indian  guide  was  mushing  before, 
bent  low  with  the  weight  of  his  pack,  and  head 
lowered  to  the  sweep  of  the  wind.  Clen  followed. 
At  the  head  of  a  newly  frozen  rapid,  the  English- 
man suddenly  broke  through  and  was  plunged  into 
the  icy  waters.  Grasping  the  ice,  he  managed  to 
draw  himself  up  so  that  his  elbows  rested  upon  the 
edge,  and  in  this  position  he  called  again  and  again 
to  the  guide.  But  the  Indian  was  far  ahead,  his 
ears  were  muffled  in  his  fur  cap,  and  the  wind 
roared  through  the  scrub,  drowning  CI  en's  voice. 
The  icy  waters  numbed  him  and  sucked  at  his 
body  seeking  to  drag  him  to  his  doom.  The  heavy 
pack  was  dragging  him  slowly  backward,  and  his 
hold  upon  the  ice  was  slipping.  Then,  and  not 
until  then,  Clen  did  what  any  other  man  who 
possessed  the  strength,  would  have  done.  He 
worked  the  knife  from  his  belt  and  cut  the  straps 
of  his  pack  sack.  In  an  instant  it  disappeared 
beneath  the  ice,  and  with  it  the  location  of  your 


94  The  Gold  Girl 

father's  strike.  Relieved  of  the  weight  upon  his 
shoulders,  Clen  had  a  fighting  chance  for  his  life, 
but  it  is  doubtful  if  he  would  have  won  had  it  not 
been  that  the  Indian,  missing  him  at  last,  returned 
in  the  nick  of  time,  and  with  the  aid  of  a  loop  of 
babiche,  succeeded  in  drawing  him  from  the  water. 
The  rest  of  the  day  was  spent  in  drying  Clen's 
clothing  beside  a  miserable  fire  of  brushwood,  and 
the  next  day  they  made  Fort  McLeod,  more  dead 
than  alive." 

"Lord"  Clendenning  had  dismounted,  deposited 
his  precious  basket  of  eggs  upon  the  ground,  and 
stood  in  the  doorway  as  Bethune  concluded  his 
narrative.  When  the  man  ceased  speaking  the 
Englishman  shook  his  head  sadly.  "Yes,  yes,  it 
seemed  to  me  then,  as  I  clung  to  the  edge  of  the 
bloomin'  ice,  freezin'  from  my  feet  up,  that  my 
only  chance  was  in  bein'  rid  of  the  pack.  But,  I've 
thought  since  that  maybe  if  I'd  held  on  just  a  few 
minutes  longer,  the  bloody  Injun  would  have  got 
there  in  time  to  save  both  me  an'  the  pack  to  boot." 

"There  you  go  again!"  exclaimed  Bethune, 
with  a  trace  of  impatience  in  his  voice.  "How 
many  times  have  I  told  you  to  quit  this  self- 
accusation.  A  man  who  covered  fifty  miles  on 
horseback,  seven  hundred  on  the  train,  and  then 


Bethune  Pays  a  Call  95 

nearly  a  hundred  a-foot,  under  conditions  such  as 
you  faced,  has  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  in  the 
failure  of  his  mission.  It  is  your  loss  as  well  as 
mine,  for  you  also  were  to  have  profited  by  the 
strike.  It  is  possible,  however,  that  all  will  be  well 
— that  Miss  Sinclair  has  her  father's  original  map, 
and  a  duplicate  of  the  photograph,  or  better  yet, 
the  film  from  which  the  print  was  made." 

Pausing  he  glanced  at  the  girl  significantly,  but 
she  was  gazing  past  him — past  Clendenning,  her 
eyes  upon  the  giant  up-sweep  of  the  hills.  He 
hurried  on,  "So  now  you  have  the  whole  story. 
I  had  not  meant  to  speak  of  it,  to-day.  Really,  we 
*nust  be  going.  If  I  can  be  of  service  to  you  in  any 
way,  Miss  Sinclair,  I  am  yours  to  command.  We 
will  drop  in  again,  after  you  have  had  time  to  get 
used  to  your  surroundings,  and  lay  our  plans  for 
the  rediscovery  of  the  mother  lode."  Smiling  he 
pointed  to  the  canvas  bag  upon  the  floor.  "Your 
father's  pack  sack,"  he  said.  "I  should  know  it  in 
a  thousand.  He  devised  it  himself.  It  is  a  clever 
combination  of  the  virtues  of  several  of  the  stand- 
ard packs,  and  an  elimination  of  the  evils  of  all." 
He  stooped  closer.  "What's  this?  You  should 
not  have  cut  it!  Couldn't  you  find  the  key?  If 
not,  it  would  have  been  a  simple  matter  to  file  a 


96  The  Gold  Girl 

link  of  the  chain,  and  leave  the  sack  undamaged/' 
He  laughed,  shortly.  "But,  that,  I  suppose,  is  a 
woman's  way." 

' '  I  did  not  cut  it.  It  was  cut  before  it  came  here. 
My  father  left  it  in  Mr.  Watts's  care  and  he  stored 
it  in  the  barn.    Look  at  the  edges,  it  is  an  old  cut." 

"So  it  is!"  exclaimed  Bethune,  as  he  and  Lord 
Clendenning  bent  close  to  examine  it.  "So  it  is. 
I  wonder  who — "  Suddenly  he  ceased  speaking, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  with  puckered  brows. 
"I  wonder,"  he  muttered.  "I  wonder  if  he  would 
have  dared?  Yes,  I  think  he  would.  He  knew  of 
Rod's  strike,  and  he  would  stop  at  nothing  to  steal 
the  secret." 

"I  don't  believe  Mr.  Watts,  nor  any  of  the 
Wattses  cut  that  pack,"  defended  the  girl. 

"Neither  do  I.  Watts  has  his  faults,  but  dis- 
honesty is  not  one  of  them.  No.  The  man  who 
cut  that  pack,  was  the  man  who  carried  it  there 


"Vil  Holland!"  exclaimed  Lord  Clendenning. 
"My  word,  d'ye  think  he'd  dare?  Yes,  Watts 
told  us  that  he  brought  in  the  pack  because  Sin- 
clair was  in  a  hurry.  The  bloody  scamp!  He 
should  be  jolly  well  trounced!  I'll  do  it  myself  if 
I  see  him,  so  help  me  Bob,  I  will!" 


Bethune  Pays  a  Call  97 

Bethune  turned  to  the  girl.  "You  have  ex- 
amined his  effects.  Was  there  evidence  of  their 
having  been  tampered  with?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  If  he  left  any  papers  or 
maps  or  things  like  that  in  there  it  most  certainly 
has  been  tampered  with,  for  they  are  not  there 
now." 

The  man  smiled.  "  I  think  we  are  safe  in  assum- 
ing that  there  were  no  maps  or  papers  of  value  in 
the  outfit.  Your  father  was  far  too  shrewd  to  have 
left  anything  of  the  sort  to  the  tender  mercies  of 
Vil  Holland.  By  cutting  the  pack  Vil  merely  gave 
evidence  of  his  unscrupulous  methods  without  in 
any  way  profiting  by  it.  And,  as  for  the  map  and 
photographs  in  your  possession,  I  should  advise 
you  to  find  some  good  hiding  place  for  them  and 
not  trust  to  carrying  them  about  upon  your  per- 
son." Swiftly  Patty  glanced  at  the  speaker. 
That  last  injunction,  somehow,  did  not  ring  quite 
true.  But  he  had  turned  to  the  door,  and  a 
moment  later  when  he  faced  her  to  bid  her  adieu, 
the  boyish  smile  was  again  curling  his  lips,  and  he 
mounted  and  rode  away. 


CHAPTER  VII 


IN   THE   CABIN 


For  a  long  time  after  the  departure  of  her 
visitors,  Patty  Sinclair  sat  thinking.  Was  it  true, 
all  this  man  had  told  her  ?  She  remembered  vividly 
the  beautiful  tribute  he  had  paid  her  father  and 
the  emotion  that  had  gripped  him  as  he  finished. 
Surely  his  words  rang  true.  They  were  true,  or 
else  the  man  was  a  consummate  actor  as  well  as 
an  unscrupulous  knave.  She  recalled  the  boyish 
smile,  the  story  of  Lord  Clendenning's  terrible 
journey,  and  the  impatience  with  which  he  had 
silenced  the  Englishman's  self-criticism.  What 
would  be  more  natural  than  that  two  men  thrown 
together  in  the  middle  of  the  hill  country,  as  her 
father  and  Bethune  had  been  thrown  together, 
should  have  pooled  their  interests,  especially  if 
each  possessed  an  essential  that  the  other  did  not. 
There  had  been  somehow  a  sincerity  about  the 
man  that  carried  conviction.     She  liked  his  ready 

98 


In  the  Cabin  99 

admission  that  her  father's  knowledge  of  mining 
greatly  exceeded  his  own.  And  the  assertion  that 
he  had  advanced  sums  of  money  for  the  carrying 
on  of  the  work  sounded  plausible  enough,  for  the 
girl  knew  that  her  father's  income  had  been  small 
— pitiably  small,  but  enough,  he  had  always  in- 
sisted, for  his  meager  needs.  Unquestionably,  up 
to  that  point  the  man's  words  had  carried  the  ring 
of  truth.  Then  came  the  false  notes;  the  open 
accusation  of  Vil  Holland,  and  the  warning  as  to 
the  concealment  of  the  map  and  photos  which  she 
had  twice  purposely  refused  to  admit  that  she 
possessed.  This  was  the  second  time  he  had  gone 
out  of  his  way  to  warn  her  against  Vil  Holland. 
On  occasion  of  their  previous  meeting,  he  had 
hinted  that  Holland  might  pose  as  a  friend  of  her 
father — a  pose  Bethune,  himself,  boldly  assumed. 
Perhaps  Vil  Holland  had  been  a  friend  of  her 
father.  In  the  matter  of  the  pack  sack,  to  whom 
would  a  man  intrust  his  belongings,  if  not  to  a 
friend?  Surely  not  to  an  enemy,  nor  to  one  he  had 
reason  to  suspect.  And  now  Bethune  openly 
accused  him  of  cutting  the  pack  sack,  and  inti- 
mated that  he  would  not  hesitate  to  rob  her  of  her 
secret. 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  with  her  elbow  on  the 


ioo  The  Gold  Girl 

table  and  her  chin  resting  in  her  palm,  staring  out 
at  the  overshadowing  hills.  "If  there  was  only 
somebody,"  she  muttered.  "Somebody  I  could 
—  "  Suddenly  she  leaped  to  her  feet.  "No,  I'm 
glad  there  isn't!  I'll  play  the  game  alone!  I 
came  out  here  to  do  it,  and  I'll  do  it,  in  spite  of 
forty  Vil  Hollands,  and  Bethunes,  and  Lord 
Clendennings !  I'll  find  the  mine  myself — and  I'll 
call  it  a  mine,  too,  if  I  want  to !  And  then,  after  I 
find  it,  if  Mr.  Monk  Bethune  can  show  me  that  he 
is  entitled  to  a  share  in  it,  I'll  give  it  to  him — and 
not  before.  I'll  stay  right  here  till  I  find  it,  or  till 
my  money  gives  out,  and  when  it  does,  111  earn 
some  more  and  come  back  again  till  that's  gone!" 
Crossing  the  room,  she  stamped  determinedly  out 
the  door,  threw  the  saddle  onto  her  cayuse,  and 
rode  rapidly  down  the  creek.  Horseback  riding 
always  exhilarated  her,  even  back  home  where  she 
had  been  obliged  to  keep  to  roads,  or  the  well-worn 
courses  of  the  hunt  club.  But  here  in  the  hills 
where  the  very  air  was  a  tonic  that  sent  the  blood 
coursing  through  her  veins,  and  where  tier  af- 
ter tier,  the  mighty  mountains  rolled  away  into 
the  distance,  as  if  flaunting  a  challenge  to  come 
and  explore  their  secrets,  and  unscarred  valleys 
gave  glimpses  of  alluring  vistas,  the  exhilaration 


In  the  Cabin  101 

amounted  almost  to  intoxication.  As  her  horse's 
feet  thudded  the  ground,  and  splashed  in  and  out 
of  the  shallows  of  the  creek,  she  laughed  aloud  for 
the  very  joy  of  living.  She  pulled  her  horse  to  a 
walk  as  she  skirted  the  fence  of  Watts 's  upper 
pasture,  and  her  eyes  rested  with  approval  upon 
the  straightened  posts  and  taut  wire.  "At  last 
Mr.  Watts  has  bestirred  himself.  I  hope  he  will 
keep  on,  now,  that  he's  got  the  habit,  and  fix  up  the 
rest  of  the  ranch.  I  wonder  why  that  Vil  Holland 
disapproved  when  he  mentioned  that  he  had 
leased  his  pasture.  It  seems  as  though  nothing 
can  happen  in  this  country  unless  Vil  Holland  is 
mixed  up  in  it  someway.  And,  now  I'm  down  this 
far,  I'll  just  find  out  whether  Vil  Holland  did  take 
that  pack  down  here  for  daddy.  And  if  he  did 
I'll  let  him  know  mighty  quick,  the  next  time  I  see 
him,  that  I  know  all  about  it's  being  cut  open." 

With  her  tubs  on  a  bench,  and  the  baby  propped 
and  tied  securely  in  an  old  wooden  rocker,  Ma 
Watts  was  up  to  her  elbows  in  her  "  week's  worsh." 
Watts  sat  in  his  accustomed  place,  his  chair  tilted 
against  the  shady  side  of  the  house.  "Laws  sakes, 
ef  hit  hain't  Mr.  Sinclair's  darter!"  cried  the 
woman,   shaking  the  suds  from  her  bare  arms, 

How  be  yo' ,  honey  ?    An'  how' s  the  sheep  camp  ? 


i02  The  Gold  Girl 

Microby  Dandeline  tellen  us  how  yo'-all  scrubbed, 
an'  scraped,  an'  cleaned  'til  hit  shined  like  a  nigger's 
heel.  Hit's  nice  to  be  clean,  that-a-way  ef  yo'  got 
time,  but  with  five  er  six  young-uns  to  take  keer  of, 
an'  a  passel  of  chickens  a-runnin'  in  under  foot  all 
day,  seems  like  a  body  cain't  keep  clean  nohow. 
Microby  says  how  yo'  got  a  rale  curtin'  in  yo' 
winder,  an'  all  kinds  of  pert  doin'  an'  fixin's. 
That's  hit,  git  right  down  off  yer  horse.  Land! 
I  wus  so  busy  hearin'  'bout  yo'  fixin'  up  the  sheep 
camp,  thet  I  plumb  f ergot  my  manners.  Watts, 
get  a  cheer !  An'  'pears  like  yo'  could  say '  Howdy ' 
when  anyone  comes  a  visitin'." 

"I  aimed  to,"  mumbled  Watts  apologetically, 
as  he  dragged  a  chair  from  the  kitchen,  "I  wus  jest 
a-aidgin'  'round  fer  a  chanct." 

"  I  can't  stay  but  a  minute,  see,  the  shadows  are 
already  half  way  across  the  valley.  I  just  thought 
I'd  take  a  little  ride  before  supper." 

"Law,  yes,  some  folks  likes  to  ride  hossback. 
but  fer  me,  I'd  a  heap  ruther  go  in  a  jolt  wagon. 
Beats  all  the  dif 'fence  in  folks.  Seems  like  the 
folks  out  yere  jist  take  to  hit  nachel.  Yo'  be'n 
huntin'  yo'  pa's  location  yet?" 

"No,  I've  been  getting  things  in  shape  around 
the   cabin.     I'm  going   to   start   prospecting   to- 


In  the  Cabin  103 

morrow."  She  glanced  back  along  the  valley, 
"I  suppose  my  father  came  along  this  way  when 
he  left  his  pack  on  his  way  East,"  she  said. 

"  No,  mom, "  Watts  rubbed  his  chin,  reflectively. 
"Hit  wus  Vil  Holland  brung  in  his  pack.  Seems 
like  yo'  pa  wus  in  a  right  smart  of  a  hurry  when  he 
left,  so  Vil  taken  his  pack  down  yere  an*  me  an' 
the  boys  put  hit  in  the  barn  fer  to  keep  hit  saft. 
Then  Vil  he  rud  on  down  the  crick,  hell  bent  fer 
'lection " 

"Watts!  Hain't  yo'  shamed  a-cussin'?"  cried 
his  scandalized  spouse? 

"Why  was  he  in  such  a  hurry?"  asked  the  girl. 

"I  dunno.  He  jes'  turned  the  mewl  loost  an' 
says  to  keep  the  pack  till  yo'  pa  come  back,  an' 
larruped  off." 

Patty  rose  from  the  chair  and  gathered  up  her 
bridle  reins.  "I  must  be  going,  really.  You  see, 
I've  got  my  chores  to  do,  and  supper  to  get,  and 
I  want  to  go  to  bed  early  so  I'll  be  fresh  in  the 
morning."  She  mounted,  and  turned  to  Ma 
Watts:  "Can't  you  come  up  some  day  and  bring 
the  children?  I'd  love  to  have  you.  Let's  ar- 
range the  day  now,  so  I  will  be  sure  to  be  home." 

"Lawzie,  I'd  give  a  purty!  Listen  at  thet, 
now,  Watts.     Cain't  we  fix  to  go?  " 


io4  The  Gold  Girl 

Watts  fumbled  his  beard :  "Why,  yas,  I  reckon, 
some  day,  mebbe." 

"What  day  can  you  come?"  asked  Patty. 

"Well,  le's  see,  this  yere's  about  a  Tuesday." 
He  paused,  glanced  up  at  the  sky,  and  gave  careful 
scrutiny  to  the  horizon.  "How'd  Sunday  a  week 
suit  yo' — ef  hit  don't  rain?" 

"Fine,"  agreed  the  girl,  smiling.  "And,  by 
the  way,  I  came  down  past  the  upper  pasture. 
The  fence  looks  grand.  It  didn't  take  long  to 
fix  it,  did  it?" 

"Well,  hit  tuk  quite  a  spell — all  day  yeste'day, 
an*  up  'til  noon  to-day.  We  only  got  one  side 
an'  halft  another  done,  an'  they's  two  sides  an' 
a  halft  yet.  But  Mr.  Bethune  came  by  this 
noon,  him  an'  Lord,  an'  'lowed  he  worn't  in 
no  gret  hurry  fer  hit,  causen  he  heerd  from 
Schultz  thet  the  hoss  business  'ud  haf  to  wait 
over  a  spell " 

"An'  Lord,  he  come  down  an'  boughten  a  lot  of 
aigs  offen  me.  Him  an'  Mr.  Bethune  is  both  got 
manners." 

"Women  folks  likes  'em  better'n  what  men  does, 
seems  like, "  opined  Watts,  reflectively. 

"Why  don't  men  like  them?"  asked  the  girl 
eagerly. 


In  the  Cabin  105 

"I  dunno.  Seems  like  they  jes'  nachelly  mis- 
trust 'em  someways." 

"Did  my  father  like  him — Mr.  Bethune?" 

'"Cor din'  to  Mr.  Bethune  they  wus  gret  bud- 
dies, but  when  I'd  run  acrost  yo'  pa  in  the  hills, 
'pears  like  he  wus  alius  alone  er  elsen  Vil  Holland 
was  along.  But,  Mr.  Bethune  claims  he  set  a 
heap  by  yo'  pa,  like  the  time  he  come  an'  'lowed 
to  take  away  his  pack.  I  wouldn't  let  hit  go,  'cause 
thet  hain't  the  way  Vil  said,  an'  Mr.  Bethune,  he 
started  in  to  git  mad,  but  then  he  laffed,  an'  said 
hit  didn't  make  no  diff'ence,  'cause  all  he  wanted 
wus  to  be  shore  hit  wus  saft  kep." 

"An'  Pa  mos'  hed  to  shoot  him,  though,  'fore 
he  laffed.  I  done  tol'  Pa  he  hadn't  ort  to.  Lessen 
yo'  runnin'  a  still,  yo'  hain't  no  call  to  shoot  folks 
comin'  'round." 

"Shoot  him!"  exclaimed  Patty,  staring  in  sur- 
prise at  the  easy-going  Watts. 

"Yas,  he  aimed  to  take  thet  pack  anyways. 
So  I  went  in  an'  got  down  the  ol'  rifle-gun  an' 
pintedly  tole  him  I'd  shoot  him  dead  ef  he  laid 
holt  o'  thet  pack,  an'  then  he  laffed  an'  rud  off." 

"But,  would  you  have  shot  him,  really?" 

"Yas, "  answered  the  mountaineer,  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  tone,  "I'd  of  hed  to." 


106  The  Gold  Girl 

Patty  rode  home  slowly  and  in  silence — think- 
ing. And  that  evening,  by  the  light  of  her  coal- 
oil  lamp  she  puzzled  over  the  roughly  sketched 
map  with  its  cryptic  signs  and  notations.  There 
were  a  half-dozen  samples,  too — chips  of  rough, 
heavy  rock  that  didn't  look  a  bit  like  gold. 
"High  grade,"  her  daddy  had  called  them  as  he 
babbled  incessantly  upon  his  deathbed.  But  they 
looked  dull  and  unpromising  to  the  girl  as  they 
lay  upon  the  table.  She  returned  to  the  sketch. 
With  the  exception  of  a  single  small  dot,  placed 
beside  what  was  evidently  the  principal  creek  of 
the  locality,  the  map  consisted  only  of  lines  and 
shadings  which  evidently  indicated  creeks  and 
mountains — no  cross,  no  letter,  no  number — 
nothing  to  indicate  landmark  or  location,  only  a 
confusing  network  of  creeks  and  feeders  branching 
out  like  the  limbs  of  a  tree.  Along  the  bottom  of 
the  paper  the  girl  read  the  following  line : 

"SCiSi^EiS  t  to  n  2  W  to  a.  to  b.  stake  L.C.  ^  centre." 

1  '  I  suppose  that  was  all  clear  as  daylight  to  daddy, 
and  maybe  it  would  be  to  anyone  who  is  used  to 
maps,  but  as  for  doing  me  any  good,  he  might 
as  well  have  copied  a  line  from  the  Chinese  dic- 
tionary." 


In  the  Cabin  107 

She  stared  hopelessly  at  the  unintelligible  line, 
and  then  at  the  two  photographs.  One,  taken 
evidently  from  a  point  well  up  the  side  of  a 
hill,  showed  a  narrow  valley,  flanked  upon  the 
opposite  side  by  a  high  rock  wall.  Toward  the 
upper  end  of  the  wall  an  irregular  crack  or  cleft 
split  it  from  top  to  bottom.  The  other  was  a 
"  close  up  "  taken  at  the  very  base  of  the  cleft,  and 
showed  only  the  narrow  aperture  in  the  rock,  and 
the  ground  at  its  base.  For  a  long  time  she  sat 
studying  the  photographs,  memorizing  every 
feature  and  line  of  them;  the  conformation  of  the 
valley,  the  contour  of  the  rock  wall,  the  position 
and  shapes  of  the  trees  and  rock  fragments. 
"That  must  be  the  mine,"  she  concluded,  at 
length,  "right  there  at  the  bottom  of  that  crack." 
She  closed  her  eyes  and  conjured  a  mental  picture 
of  the  little  valley,  of  the  rock  wall,  and  of  the  cleft 
that  would  mark  the  location.  "I'd  know  it  if  I 
should  see  it,  "  she  muttered,  "let's  see :  big  broken 
rocks  strewn  along  the  floor  of  the  valley,  and  a 
tiny  creek,  and  then  the  rock  cliff,  it  must  be  about 
as  high  as — about  twice  as  tall  as  the  trees  that 
grow  along  the  foot  of  it,  and  it's  highest  at  the 
upper  end,  then  there's  a  big  tree  standing  alone 
almost  in  the  middle  of  the  valley,  and  the  gnarled, 


io8  The  Gold  Girl 

scraggly  trees  that  grow  along  the  top  of  the 
rocks,  and  the  valley  must  be  as  wide  as  from  here 
to  that  clump  of  trees  beyond  my  wood-pile — 
about  a  block,  I  guess.  And  there's  the  big  crack 
in  the  cliff  that  starts  straight,"  she  traced  the 
course  of  the  crack  with  her  finger  upon  the  table 
top,  "and  then  zigzags  to  the  ground/'  Her 
glance  returned  to  the  map,  and  she  frowned.  "  I 
don't  think  that's  a  bit  of  good  to  me.  But  I 
don't  care  as  long  as  I  have  the  photographs.  I'll 
just  ride,  and  ride,  and  ride  through  these  hills 
till  I  find  that  valley,  and  then—"  The  little 
clock  on  the  shelf  beside  the  mirror  ticked  loudly. 
Her  thoughts  strayed  far  beyond  the  confines  of 
the  little  cabin  on  Monte' s  Creek,  as  she  planned 
how  she  would  spend  the  golden  stream  that  was 
to  flow  from  the  foot  of  the  rock  ledge. 

Gradually  her  vision  became  confused,  the  in- 
cessant ticking  of  the  little  clock  sounded  farther, 
and  farther  away,  her  head  settled  to  rest  upon  her 
folded  arms,  and  she  was  in  the  midst  of  a  struggle 
of  some  kind,  in  which  a  belted  cowboy  and  a 
suave,  sloe-eyed  quarter-breed  were  fighting  to 
gain  possession  of  her  mine — or,  were  they  trying 
to  help  her  locate  it?  And  what  was  it  daddy  was 
trying  to  tell  her?     She  couldn't  quite  hear.     She 


In  the  Cabin  109 

wished  he  would  talk  louder — but  it  was  something 
about  the  mine,  and  the  men  who  were  struggling. 
.  .  .  She  awoke  with  a  start,  and  glanced  swiftly 
about  the  cabin.  The  roots  of  her  hair  along  the 
back  of  her  neck  tingled  uncomfortably.  She 
felt  she  was  not  alone — that  somewhere  eyes  were 
watching  her.  The  chintz  curtain  that  screened 
the  open  window  swayed  lightly  in  the  night  breeze 
and  she  jumped  nervously.  "I'ma  perfect  fool ! " 
she  exclaimed,  aloud:  "As  if  any  'Jack  the 
Peeper'  would  be  prowling  around  these  moun- 
tains!    It's  just  nerves,  that's  all  it  is." 

Slipping  the  map  and  the  photographs  beneath 
a  plate,  she  crossed  to  the  door  and  made  sure  the 
bar  was  in  place,  took  the  white  butted  revolver 
from  its  holster,  and  with  a  determined  tightening 
of  the  lips,  stepped  to  the  window,  drew  the  cur- 
tain aside,  and  stood  peering  out  into  the  dark. 
The  only  sounds  were  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  and 
the  purling  of  the  water  as  it  rushed  among  the 
stones  of  the  shallow  ford.  Overhead  the  stars 
winked  brightly,  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  velvet 
blackness  of  the  pines.  The  sound  of  the  water 
soothed  her,  and  she  laughed — a  forced  little 
laugh,  but  it  made  her  feel  better.  Crossing  to 
the  table  she  blew  out  the  lamp  and,  placing  her 


no  The  Gold  Girl 

revolver  at  the  head  of  her  bunk,  undressed  in 
the  darkness.  She  raised  the  plate,  took  the  map 
and  the  two  precious  photographs,  placed  them 
in  their  envelope,  and  slipped  the  chain  about  her 
neck. 

For  a  long  time  she  lay  between  her  blankets, 
wide  awake,  conscious  that  she  was  straining  her 
ears  to  catch  some  faint  sound.  A  half  dozen 
times  she  caught  herself  listening  with  nerves  on 
edge  and  muscles  taut,  and  each  time  forced  herself 
to  relax.  But  always  she  came  back  to  that 
horrible,  tense  listening.  She  charged  herself 
with  cowardice,  and  pooh-poohed  her  fears,  but  it 
was  no  use,  and  she  wound  up  by  covering  her 
head  with  her  blanket.  "I  don't  care,  there  was 
somebody  watching,  but  if  he  thinks  he's  going  to 
find  out  where  I  keep  these,"  her  hand  clutched 
the  little  oiled  packet,  "he'll  have  to  come 
again,  that's  all." 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  later  that  Monk  Bethune 
quitted  his  post  close  against  the  cabin  wall,  at 
the  point  where  the  chinking  had  fallen  away  from 
the  logs,  and  slipped  silently  into  the  timber. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PROSPECTING 

The  gray  of  early  morning  was  just  beginning 
to  render  objects  in  the  little  room  indistinguish- 
able when  Patty  awoke.  She  made  a  hasty 
toilet,  lighted  the  fire,  and  while  the  water  was 
heating  for  her  coffee,  delved  into  the  pack  sack 
and  drew  out  a  gray  flannel  shirt  which  she  viewed 
critically  from  every  conceivable  angle.  She 
tried  it  on,  turning  this  way  and  that,  before  the 
mirror.  "  Daddy  wasn't  so  much  larger  than  I 
am, "  she  smiled,  "I  can  take  a  tuck  in  the  sleeves, 
and  turn  back  the  collar  and  it  will  fit  pretty  well. 
Anyway,  it  will  be  better  than  that  riding  jacket. 
It  will  look  less  citified,  and  more — more  pros- 
pecty."  A  few  moments  sufficed  for  the  altera- 
tion and  as  the  girl  stood  before  the  mirror  and 
carefully  knotted  her  brilliant  scarf,  she  nodded 
emphatic  approval. 

Breakfast  over,  she  washed  her  dishes  and  as 
in 


"2  The  Gold  Girl 

she  put  them  on  their  shelf  her  glance  rested  upon 
the  bits  of  broken  rock  fragments.  Instantly,  her 
thoughts  flew  to  the  night  before,  and  the  feeling 
that  someone  had  been  watching  her.  Rapidly 
her  glance  flashed  about  the  cabin  searching  a 
place  to  hide  them.  "They're  too  heavy  to 
carry,"  she  murmured.  "And,  yet,"  her  eyes 
continued  their  search,  lingering  for  a  moment 
upon  some  nook  or  corner  only  to  flit  to  another, 
and  another,  "every  place  I  can  think  of  seems  as 
though  it  would  be  the  very  first  place  anyone 
would  look."  Her  eyes  fell  upon  the  empty 
tomato  can  that  she  had  forgotten  to  throw  into 
the  coulee  after  last  night's  supper.  She  placed 
the  samples  in  the  can.  "I  might  put  it  with  the 
others  in  the  cupboard,  but  if  anybody  looked 
there  they  would  be  sure  to  see  that  it  had  been 
opened.  Where  do  people  hide  things?  I  might 
go  out  and  dig  a  hole  and  bury  it,  but  if  anyone 
were  watching — "  Suddenly  her  eyes  lighted: 
"The  very  thing,"  she  cried:  "Nobody  would 
think  of  looking  among  those  old  bottles  and 
cans."  And  placing  the  can  in  the  pan  of  dish- 
water, she  carried  it  out  and  threw  it  onto  the  pile 
of  rubbish  in  the  coulee.  Returning  to  the  cabin, 
she  put  on  her  father's  Stetson,  slipped  his  revolver 


Prospecting  113 

into  its  holster,  and  buckling  the  belt  about  her 
waist,  gave  one  last  approving  glance  into  the 
mirror,  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  saddled 
her  horse.  With  the  bridle  reins  in  her  hand  she 
stood  irresolute.  In  which  direction  should  she 
start?  Obviously,  if  she  must  search  the  whole 
country,  she  should  begin  somewhere  and  work 
systematically.  She  felt  in  the  pocket  of  her 
skirt  and  reassured  herself  that  the  compass  she 
had  taken  from  the  pack  sack  was  there.  Her 
eyes  swept  the  valley  and  came  to  rest  upon  a  deep 
notch  in  the  hills  that  flanked  it  upon  the  west.  A 
coulee  sloped  upward  to  the  notch,  and  mounting, 
the  girl  crossed  the  creek  and  headed  for  the  gap. 
It  was  slow  and  laborious  work,  picking  her  way 
among  the  loose  rocks  and  fallen  trees  of  the  deep 
ravine  that  narrowed  and  grew  steeper  as  she 
advanced.  Loose  rocks,  disturbed  by  her  horse's 
feet,  clattered  noisily  behind  her,  and  marks  here 
and  there  in  the  soil  told  her  that  she  was  not 
the  first  to  pass  that  way.  ' '  I  wonder  who  it  was  ? " 
she  speculated.  "Either  Monk  Bethune,  or  Vil 
Holland,  or  Lord  Clendenning,  I  suppose.  They 
all  seem  to  be  forever  riding  back  and  forth  through 
the  hills."  At  last  she  gained  the  summit,  and 
pulled  up  to  enjoy  the  view.     Judging  by  the 


H4  The  Gold  Girl 

trampled  buffalo  grass  that  capped  the  divide,  the 
rider  who  preceded  her  had  also  stopped.  She 
glanced  backward,  and  there,  showing  above  the 
tops  of  the  trees  that  covered  the  slope,  stood  her 
own  cabin,  looking  tiny  and  far  away,  but  with  its 
every  detail  standing  out  with  startling  clearness. 
She  could  even  see  the  ax  standing  where  she  had 
left  it  beside  the  door,  and  the  box  she  had  placed 
at  the  end  of  the  log  wall  to  take  the  place  of  the 
cupboard  as  a  home  for  the  pack  rats.  ' '  Whoever 
it  was  could  certainly  keep  track  of  my  move- 
ments from  here  without  the  least  risk  of  being 
discovered,"  she  thought,  "and  if  he  had  field 
glasses!"  She  blushed,  and  turned  her  eyes  to 
survey  the  endless  succession  of  peaks  and  passes 
and  valleys  that  lay  spread  out  over  the  sea  of 
hills.  "How  in  the  world  am  I  ever  going  to  find 
one  tiny  little  valley  among  all  these?"  she  won- 
dered. Her  heart  sank  at  the  vastness  of  it  all, 
and  at  her  own  helplessness,  and  the  utter  hope- 
lessness of  her  stupendous  task.  ' '  Oh,  I  can  never, 
never  do  it,"  she  faltered,  " — never."  And, 
instantly  ashamed  of  herself,  clenched  her  small, 
gloved  fist.  "I  will  do  it!  My  daddy  found  his 
mine,  and  he  didn't  have  any  pictures  to  go  by 
either.     He  just  delved  and  worked  for  years  and 


Prospecting  115 

years — and  at  last  he  found  it.  I'd  find  it  if  there 
were  twice  as  many  hills  and  valleys.  It  may 
take  me  years — and  I  may  find  it  to-day — just 
think!  This  very  day  I  may  ride  into  that  little 
valley — or  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day.  It  can't 
be  far  away.  Mrs.  Watts  said  daddy  was  always 
to  be  found  within  ten  miles  of  the  ranch." 

She  headed  her  horse  down  the  opposite  slope 
that  slanted  at  a  much  easier  gradient  than  the 
one  she  had  just  ascended.  The  trees  on  this  side 
of  the  divide  were  larger  and  the  hillside  gradually 
flattened  into  a  broad,  tilted  plateau.  She  gave 
her  horse  his  head  and  breathed  deeply  of  the  pine- 
laden  air  as  the  animal  swung  in  beside  a  tiny 
creek  that  flowed  smooth  and  black  through  the 
dusky  silence  of  the  pines  whose  interlacing 
branches,  high  above,  admitted  the  sunlight  in 
irregular  splashes  of  gold.  There  was  little  under- 
brush and  the  horse  followed  easily  along  the 
creek,  where  here  and  there,  in  the  softer  soil  of 
damp  places,  the  girl  could  see  the  hoof  marks  of 
the  rider  who  had  crossed  the  divide.  "I  wonder 
whether  it  was  he  who  watched  me  last  night? 
There  was  someone,  I  could  feel  it." 

The  creek  sheered  sharply  around  an  out- 
cropping shoulder  of  rock,  and  the  next  instant 


n6  The  Gold  Girl 

Patty  pulled  up  short,  and  sat  staring  at  a  little 
white  tent  that  nestled  close  against  the  side  of  the 
huge  monolith  which  stood  at  the  edge  of  a  broad, 
grassed  opening  in  the  woods.  The  flaps  were 
thrown  wide  and  the  walls  caught  up  to  allow  free 
passage  of  air.  Blankets  that  had  evidently- 
covered  a  pile  of  boughs  in  one  corner,  were 
thrown  over  the  ridgepole  from  which  hung  a 
black  leather  binocular  case,  and  several  canvas 
bags  formed  an  orderly  row  along  one  side.  A 
kettle  hung  suspended  over  a  small  fire  in  front  of 
the  tent,  and  a  row  of  blackened  cooking  utensils 
hung  from  a  wooden  bar  suspended  between  two 
crotched  stakes.  Out  in  the  clearing,  a  man  was 
bridling  a  tall  buckskin  horse.  The  man  was  Vil 
Holland.  Curbing  a  desire  to  retreat  unobserved 
into  the  timber,  the  girl  advanced  boldly  across 
the  creek  and  pulled  up  beside  the  fire.  At  the 
sound  the  man  whirled,  and  Patty  noticed  that  a 
lean,  brown  hand  dropped  swiftly  to  the  butt  of 
the  revolver. 

" Don't  shoot!"  she  called,  in  a  tone  that  was 
meant  to  be  sarcastic,  "I  won't  hurt  you."  Some- 
how, the  sarcasm  fell  flat. 

The  man  buckled  the  throat-latch  of  his  bridle 
and  picking  up  the  reins,  advanced  hat  in  hand, 


Prospecting  117 

leading  the  horse.  "I  beg  your  pardon, "  he  said, 
gravely,  "I  didn't  know  who  it  was,  when  your 
horse  splashed  through  the  creek." 

"You  have  enemies  in  the  hills?  Those  you 
would  shoot,  or  who  would  shoot  you?" 

He  dropped  the  bridle  reins,  allowing  them  to 
trail  on  the  ground.  "If  some  kinds  of  folks 
wasn't  a  man's  enemy  he  wouldn't  be  fit  to  have 
any  friends,"  he  said,  simply.  "And  here  in  the 
hills  it's  just  as  well  to  be  forehanded  with  your 
gun.  Won't  you  climb  down?  I  suppose  you've 
had  breakfast?" 

Patty  swung  from  the  saddle  and  stood  holding 
the  bridle  reins.  "Yes,  I've  had  breakfast,  thank 
you.     Don't  let  me  keep  you  from  yours." 

"Had  mine,  too.  If  you  don't  mind  I'll  wash 
up  these  dishes,  though.  Just  drop  your  reins 
— like  mine.  Your  cayuse  will  stand  as  long 
as  the  reins  are  hangin'.  It's  the  way  they're 
broke — 'tyin'  'em  to  the  ground,'  we  call  it." 
He  glanced  at  her  horse's  feet,  and  pointed  to  a 
place  beneath  the  fetlock  from  which  the  hair  had 
been  rubbed:  "Rope  burnt,"  he  opined.  "You 
oughtn't  to  put  him  out  on  a  picket  rope.  Use 
hobbles.  There's  a  couple  of  pair  in  your  dad's 
war-bag." 


u8  The  Gold  Girl 

"War-bag?" 

"Yeh,  it's  down  in  Watts's  barn,  if  he  ain't 
hauled  it  up  for  you." 

"What  are  hobbles?" 

The  man  stepped  to  the  tent  and  returned  a 
moment  later  with  two  heavy  straps  fastened 
together  by  a  bit  of  chain  and  a  swivel.  "These 
are  hobbles,  they  work  like  this."  He  stooped 
and  fastened  the  straps  about  the  forelegs  of  the 
horse  just  above  the  fetlock.  "He  can  get 
around  all  right,  but  he  can't  get  far,  and,  there  is 
no  rope  to  snag  him." 

Patty  nodded.  "Thank  you, "  she  said.  "I'll 
try  it.  But  how  do  you  know  there  are  hobbles 
in  dad's  pack?" 

"Where  would  they  be?  He  had  a  couple  of 
pair.  All  his  stuff  is  in  there.  He  always  traveled 
light." 

"Did  you  leave  my  father's  war-bag,  as  you 
call  it,  at  Watts's?" 

"Yeh,  he  was  in  somethin'  of  a  hurry  and 
didn't  want  to  go  around  by  the  trail,  so  he  left 
his  outfit  here  and  struck  straight  through  the 
hills." 

"Why  was  he  in  a  hurry?" 

The  man  placed  the  dishes  in  a  pan  and  poured 


Prospecting  119 

water  over  them.  "I've  got  my  good  guess, "  he 
answered,  thoughtfully. 

"Which  may  mean  anything,  and  tells  me 
nothing." 

Holland  nodded,  as  he  carefully  wiped  his  tin 
plate.     "  Yeh,  that's  about  the  size  of  it." 

His  attitude  angered  the  girl.  "And  I  have 
heard  he  was  not  the  only  one  in  the  hills  that 
was  in  a  hurry  that  day,  and  I  suppose  I  can 
have  my  'good  guess'  at  that,  and  I  can  have 
my  'good  guess'  as  to  who  cut  daddy's  pack 
sack,  too." 

"Yeh,  an'  you  can  change  your  guess  as  often 
as  you  want  to." 

"And  every  time  I  change  it,  I'd  get  farther 
from  the  truth." 

"You  might,  an'  you  might  get  nearer."  The 
cowpuncher  was  looking  at  her  squarely,  now. 
"You  ain't  left-handed  are  you?"  he  asked, 
abruptly. 

' '  No,  of  course  not !    Why  ? ' ' 

"Because,  if  you  ain't,  you  better  change  that 
belt  around  so  the  holster'll  carry  on  yer  right  side 
— or  else  leave  it  to  home." 

The  coldly  impersonal  tone  angered  the  girl. 
"Much  better  leave  it  home,"  she  said,   "so  if 


120  The  Gold  Girl 

anyone  wanted  to  get  my  map  and  photographs, 
he  could  do  it  without  risk." 

1 '  If  you  had  any  sense  you'd  shut  up  about  maps 
an'  photos." 

"At  least  I've  got  sense  enough  not  to  tell 
whether  I  carry  them  with  me,  or  keep  them 
hidden  in  a  safe  place." 

"You  carry  'em  on  you!"  commanded  the 
man,  gruffly.  "It's  a  good  deal  safer 'n  cachiri 
'em."  He  laid  his  dishes  aside,  poured  the  water 
from  the  pan,  wiped  it,  hung  it  in  its  place, 
and  picking  up  his  saddle  blanket,  examined  it 
carefully. 

"I  wonder  why  my  father  entrusted  his  pack 
sack  to  you?"  said  Patty,  eyeing  him  resentfully. 
"Were  you  and  he  such  great  friends?" 

"Knew  one  another  tolerable  well,"  answered 
Holland,  dryly. 

"You  weren't,  by  any  chance — partners,  were 
you?" 

He  glanced  up  quickly.  ' '  Didn't  I  tell  you  once 
that  yer  dad  played  a  lone  hand?" 

"You  knew  he  made  a  strike?" 

"That's  what  folks  think.  But  I  suppose  he 
told  Monk  Bethune  all  about  it." 

The  thinly  veiled  sneer  goaded  the  girl  to  anger. 


Prospecting  121 

"Yes,  he  did,"  she  answered,  hotly,  "and  he  told 
me,  too!" 

''Told  Mctk  all  about  it,  did  he — location  an' 
all,  I  suppose F" 

"He  intended  to,  yes,"  answered  the  girl, 
defiantly.  "The  day  he  made  his  strike,  Mr. 
Bethune  happened  to  be  away  up  in  British 
Columbia,  and  daddy  told  Lord  Clendenning  that 
he  had  made  his  strike,  and  he  drew  a  map  and 
sent  it  to  Mr.  Bethune  by  Lord  Clendenning." 

Holland  smoothed  the  blanket  into  place  upon 
the  back  of  the  buckskin,  and  reached  for  his 
saddle.  "An'  of  course,  Monk,  he  wouldn't  file 
till  you  come,  so  you'd  be  sure  an'  get  a  square 
deal " 

"He  never  got  the  map  or  the  photos.  Lord 
Clendenning  lost  them  in  a  river.  And  he  nearly 
lost  his  life,  and  was  rescued  by  an  Indian." 

There  was  a  sound  very  like  a  cough,  and  Patty 
glanced  sharply  at  the  cowpuncher,  but  his  back 
was  toward  her,  and  he  was  busy  with  his  cinch. 
"Tough  luck,"  he  remarked,  as  he  adjusted  the 
latigo  strap.  "An',  you  say,  yer  dad  told  you  all 
about  this  partnership  business?" 

"No,  he  didn't." 

"Who  did?" 


122  The  Gold  Girl 

"Mr.Bethune." 

"Oh." 

Something  in  the  tone  made  the  girl  feel  ex- 
tremely foolish.  Holland  was  deliberately  strap- 
ping the  brown  leather  jug  to  his  saddle  horn,  and 
gathering  up  her  reins,  she  mounted.  "At  least, 
Mr.  Bethune  is  a  gentleman, "  she  emphasized  the 
word  nastily. 

"An'  they  can't  hang  him  for  that,  anyway," 
he  flung  back,  and  swung  lightly  into  the  saddle, 
"I  must  be  goin'." 

"And  you  don't  even  deny  cutting  the  pack?" 

He  looked  her  squarely  in  the  eyes  and  shook 
his  head.  "No.  You  kind  of  half  believe 
Monk  about  the  partnership.  But  you  don't 
believe  I  cut  that  pack,  so  what's  the  use  deny- 
ing it?" 

"I  do " 

"If  you  should  happen  to  get  lost,  don't  try  to 
outguess  your  compass.  Always  pack  a  little 
grub  an'  some  matches,  an'  if  you  need  help,  three 
shots,  an'  then  three  more,  will  bring  anyone  that's 
in  hearin'  distance." 

"I  hope  I  shall  never  have  to  summon  you  for 
help." 

"It  is  quite  a  bother,"   admitted  the  other. 


Prospecting  123 

"An'  if  you'll  remember  what  I've  told  you,  you 
prob'ly  won't  have  to.     So  long." 

The  cowboy  settled  the  Stetson  firmly  upon 
his  head,  and  with  never  a  glance  behind  him, 
headed  his  horse  down  the  little  creek. 

The  girl  watched  him  for  a  moment  with  angry 
eyes,  and  then,  urging  her  horse  forward,  crossed 
the  plateau  at  a  gallop,  and  headed  up  the  valley. 
"Of  all  the — the  boors!  He  certainly  is  the  limit. 
And  the  worst  of  it  is  I  don't  know  whether  he 
deliberately  tries  to  insult  me,  or  whether  it's  just 
ignorance.  Anyway,  I  wouldn't  trust  him  as  far 
as  I  could  see  him.  And  I  do  believe  he  cut 
daddy's  pack  sack,  so  there!"  The  heavy  re- 
volver dangling  at  her  side  attracted  her  attention, 
and  she  pulled  up  her  horse  and  changed  it  to  the 
opposite  side.  "I  suppose  I  did  look  like  a  fool, " 
she  admitted,  "but  he  needn't  have  told  me  so. 
And  I  bet  I  know  as  much  about  a  compass  as  he 
does,  anyway.  And  I'll  tie  my  horse  up  with  a 
rope  if  I  want  to." 

Beyond  the  plateau,  the  valley  narrowed 
rapidly,  and  innumerable  ravines  and  coulees  led 
steeply  upward  to  lose  themselves  among  the 
timbered  slopes  of  the  mountain  sides.  Crossing 
a  low  divide  at  the  head  of  the  valley,  she  reined 


i24  The  Gold  Girl 

in  her  horse  and  gazed  with  thumping  heart  into 
the  new  valley  that  lay  before  her.  There, 
scarcely  a  mile  away,  stretched  a  rock  ledge — and, 
yes,  there  were  scraggly  trees  fringing  its  rim,  and 
the  valley  was  strewn  with  rock  fragments!  Her 
valley!  The  valley  of  the  photographs!  She 
laughed  aloud,  and  urged  her  horse  down  the  steep 
descent,  heedless  of  the  fact  that  upon  the  pre- 
carious, loose  rock  footing  of  the  slope,  a  misstep 
would  mean  almost  certain  destruction. 

Directly  opposite  the  face  of  the  rock  wall  she 
pulled  her  horse  to  a  stand.  "Surely,  this  must 
be  the  place,  but — where  is  the  crack?  It  should 
be  about  there."  Her  eyes  searched  the  face  of 
the  cliff  for  the  zigzag  crevice.  "Maybe  I'm  too 
close  to  it,"  she  muttered.  "The  picture  was 
taken  from  a  hillside  across  the  valley.  That 
must  be  the  hill — the  one  with  the  bare  patch 
half  way  up.  That's  right  where  he  must  have 
stood  when  he  took  the  photograph."  The  hill- 
side rose  abruptly,  and  abandoning  her  horse,  the 
girl  climbed  the  steep  ascent,  pausing  at  frequent 
intervals  for  breath.  At  last,  she  stood  upon  the 
bare  shoulder  of  the  hill  and  gazed  out  across  the 
valley,  and  as  she  gazed,  her  heart  sank.  "It 
isn't  the  place,"  she  muttered.     "There  is  no  big 


Prospecting  125 

tree,  and  the  rock  cliff  isn't  a  bit  like  the  one  in  the 
picture — and  I  thought  I  had  found  it  sure!  I 
wonder  how  many  of  those  rock  walls  there  are 
in  the  hills?    And  will  I  ever  find  the  right  one?" 

Once  more  in  the  saddle,  she  crossed  another 
divide  and  scanned  another  rock  wall,  and  farther 
down,  another.'  "I  believe  every  single  valley  in 
these  hills  has  its  own  rock  ledge,  and  some  of 
them  three  or  four!"  she  cried  disgustedly,  as  she 
seated  herself  beside  a  tiny  spring  that  trickled 
from  beneath  a  huge  rock,  and  proceeded  to  devour 
her  lunch.  "I  had  no  idea  how  hungry  I  could 
get,"  she  stared  ruefully  at  the  paper  that  had 
held  her  two  sandwiches.  "Next  time  I'll  bring 
about  six." 

Producing  her  compass,  she  leveled  a  place 
among  the  stones.  "  Let's  see  if  I  can  point  to  the 
north  without  its  help."  She  glanced  at  the  sun 
and  carefully  scanned  the  tumultuous  skyline. 
"It  is  there,"  she  indicated  a  gap  between  two 
peaks,  and  glanced  at  the  compass.  "I  knew  I 
wouldn't  get  turned  around,"  she  said,  proudly. 
"  I  didn't  miss  it  but  just  a  mite — anyway  it's  near 
enough  for  all  practical  purposes.  If  that's 
north, "  she  speculated,  "then  I  must  have  started 
east  and  then  turned  south,  and  then  west,  and 


i26  The  Gold  Girl 

then  south  again,  and  my  cabin  must  be  almost 
due  north  of  me  now."  She  returned  the  compass 
to  her  pocket.  "I'll  explore  a  little  farther  and 
then  work  toward  home." 

Mounting,  she  turned  northward,  and  emerging 
abruptly  from  a  clump  of  trees,  caught  a  glimpse  of 
swift  motion  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  where  her 
trail  had  dipped  into  the  valley,  as  a  horse  and 
rider  disappeared  like  a  flash  into  the  timber. 
"He's  following  me!"  she  cried  angrily,  "sneaking 
along  my  trail  like  a  coyote!  I'll  tell  him  just 
what  I  think  of  him  and  his  cowardly  spying." 
Urging  her  horse  into  a  run,  she  reached  the  spot 
to  find  it  deserted,  although  it  seemed  incredible 
that  anyone  could  have  negotiated  the  divide 
unnoticed  in  that  brief  space  of  time.  "I  saw 
him  plain  as  day,"  she  murmured,  as  she  turned 
her  horse  toward  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley. 
"I  couldn't  tell  for  sure  that  it  was  he — I  didn't 
even  see  the  color  of  the  horse — but  who  else  could 
it  be?  He  knew  I  started  out  this  way,  and  he 
knew  that  I  carried  the  map  and  photos,  and  was 
hunting  daddy's  claim.  I  know,  now  who  was 
watching  the  other  night."  She  shuddered.  "And 
I've  got  to  stay  here  'til  I  find  that  claim,  knowing 
all  the  time  that  I  am  being  watched!    There's 


Prospecting  127 

no  place  I  can  go  that  he  will  not  follow.  Even 
in  my  own  cabin,  I'll  always  feel  that  eyes  are 
watching  me.  And  when  I  do  find  the  mine,  he'll 
know  it  as  soon  as  I  do,  and  it  will  be  a  race  to 
file."  Drawing  up  sharply,  she  gritted  her  teeth, 
"And  he  knows  the  short  cuts  through  the  hills, 
and  I  don't.  But  I  will  know  them!"  she  cried, 
"and  when  I  do  find  the  mine,  Mr.  Vil  Holland  is 
going  to  have  the  race  of  his  life!" 

Another  parallel  valley,  and  another,  she  ex- 
plored before  turning  her  horse's  head  toward  the 
high  divide  that  she  had  reasoned  separated  her 
from  Monte's  Creek  at  a  point  well  above  her 
cabin.  Comparatively  low  ridges  divided  these 
valleys,  and  as  she  topped  each  ridge,  the  girl 
swerved  sharply  into  the  timber  and,  concealing 
herself,  intently  watched  the  back  trail — a  ma- 
neuver that  caused  the  solitary  horseman  who 
watched  from  a  safe  distance,  to  chuckle  audibly 
as  he  carefully  wiped  the  lenses  of  his  binoculars.' 

The  sunlight  played  only  upon  the  higher  peaks 
when  at  last,  weary  and  dispirited,  she  negotiated 
the  steep  descent  to  Monte's  Creek  at  a  point  a 
mile  above  the  sheep  camp.  "  If  he'd  only  photo- 
graphed something  besides  a  rock  wall,"  she 
muttered,  petulantly,  "I'd  stand  some  show  of 


128  The  Gold  Girl 

finding  it."  At  the  door  of  the  cabin  she  slipped 
from  her  saddle,  and  pausing  with  her  hand  on  the 
coiled  rope,  dropped  her  eyes  to  the  rubbed  place 
below  her  horse's  fetlock.  A  moment  later  she 
knelt  and  fastened  a  pair  of  hobbles  about  the 
horse's  ankles,  and,  removing  the  saddle,  watched 
the  animal  roll  clumsily  in  the  grass,  and  shuffle 
awkwardly  to  the  creek  where  he  sucked  greedily 
at  the  cold  water.  Entering  the  cabin,  she  lighted 
the  lamp  and  stared  about  her.  Her  glance 
traveled  one  by  one  over  the  objects  of  the  little 
room.  Everything  was  apparently  as  she  had 
left  it — yet — an  uncomfortable,  creepy  sensation 
stole  over  her.  She  knew  that  the  room  had  been 
searched. 


CHAPTER  IX 

PATTY  TAKES   PRECAUTIONS 

During  the  next  few  days  Patty  Sinclair  paid 
scant  attention  to  rock  ledges.  Each  morning  she 
saddled  her  cayuse  and  rode  into  the  hills  to  the 
southward,  crossing  divides  and  following  creeks 
and  valleys  from  their  sources  down  their  winding, 
twisting  lengths.  After  the  first  two  or  three 
trips  she  left  her  gun  at  home.  It  was  heavy  and 
cumbersome,  and  she  realized,  in  her  unskilled 
hand,  useless.  Always  she  felt  that  she  was  being 
followed,  but,  try  as  she  would,  never  could  catch 
so  much  as  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  the  rider  who 
lurked  on  her  trail.  Nevertheless,  during  these 
long  rides  which  she  made  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
familiarizing  herself  with  all  the  short  cuts  through 
the  hills,  she  derived  satisfaction  from  the  fact 
that,  while  the  trips  were  of  immense  value  to  her, 
Vil  Holland  was  having  his  trouble  for  his  pains. 

Ascertaining  at  length  that,  after  crossing  the 

o  129 


130  The  Gold  Girl 

high  divide  at  the  head  of  Monte' s  Creek,  any 
valley  leading  southward  would  prove  a  direct 
outlet  onto  the  bench  and  thereby  furnish  a  short 
cut  to  town,  she  returned  once  more  to  her  pros- 
pecting— to  the  exploration  of  little  valleys,  and 
the  examination  of  innumerable  rock  ledges. 

Accepting  as  part  of  the  game  the  fact  that  her 
cabin  was  searched  almost  daily  during  her  absence 
she  derived  grim  enjoyment  in  contemplation  of 
the  searcher's  repeated  disappointment.  Several 
attempts  to  surprise  the  marauder  at  his  work 
proved  futile,  and  she  was  forced  to  admit  that 
in  the  matter  of  shrewdness  and  persistence,  his 
ability  exceeded  her  own.  "The  real  test  will 
come  when  I  locate  the  mine,"  she  told  herself 
one  evening,  as  she  sat  alone  in  her  little  cabin. 
11  Then  the  prize  will  go  to  the  fastest  horse."  She 
drew  a  small  folding  check-book  from  her  pocket 
and  frowningly  regarded  its  latest  stub.  "A  thou- 
sand dollars  isn't  very  much,  and — it's  half  gone." 

Next  day  she  rode  out  of  the  hills  and,  following 
the  trail  for  town,  dismounted  at  Thompson's 
ranch  which  nestled  in  its  coulee  well  out  upon 
the  bench,  and  waited  for  the  rancher,  who  drove 
up  beside  a  huge  stack  with  a  load  of  alfalfa,  to 
unhitch  his  team. 


Patty  Takes  Precautions      131 

"Have  you  a  good  saddle  horse  for  sale?"  she 
asked,  abruptly. 

Thompson  released  the  tug  chains,  and  hung 
the  bridles  upon  the  names,  whereupon  the  horses 
of  their  own  accord  started  toward  the  stable, 
followed  by  a  ranch  hand  who  slid  from  the  top 
of  the  stack.  Without  answering,  he  called  to  the 
man:  "Take  the  lady's  horse  along  an'  give  him 
a  feed." 

"It's  noon,"  he  explained,  turning  to  the  girl. 
"You'll  stay  fer  dinner."  He  pointed  toward 
the  house.  "You'll  find  Miz  T.  in  the  kitchen. 
If  you  want  to  wash  up,  she'll  show  you." 

The  ranch  hand  was  leading  her  horse  toward 
the  barn.  "But,"  objected  Patty,  "I  didn't 
mean  to  run  in  like  this  just  at  meal  time.  Mrs. 
Thompson  won't  be  expecting  a  guest,  and  I 
brought  a  lunch  with  me." 

Thompson  laughed:  "You  must  be  a  pilgrim  in 
these  parts,"  he  said.  "Most  folks  would  ride 
half  a  day  to  git  here  'round  feedin'  time.  We 
always  count  on  two  or  three  extry,  so  I  guess 
they'll  be  a-plenty."  The  man's  laugh  was  in- 
fectious, and  Patty  found  herself  smiling.  She 
liked  him  from  the  first.  There  was  a  ponderous 
heartiness  about  him,  and  she  liked  the  way  his 


132  The  Gold  Girl 

little  brown  eyes  sparkled  from  out  their  network 
of  sun-browned  wrinkles.  "You  trot  along  in, 
now,  an'  tell  Miz  T.  she  can  begin  dishin'  up 
whenever  she  likes.  Well  be  'long  d'rectly. 
They'll  be  plenty  time  to  talk  horse  after  we've 
et.  My  work  teams  earns  a  good  hour  of  noonin', 
an'  I  don't  begrudge  'em  an  hour  an'  a  half,  hot 
days." 

Patty  found  Mrs.  Thompson  slight  and  quiet 
as  her  husband  was  big  and  hearty.  But  her  smile 
was  as  engaging  as  his,  and  an  indefinable  some- 
thing about  her  made  the  girl  feel  at  home  the 
moment  she  crossed  the  threshold.  "  I  came  to  see 
Mr.  Thompson  about  a  horse,  and  he  insisted  that 
I  stay  to  dinner,"  she  apologized. 

"Why,  of  course  you'll  stay  to  dinner.  But 
you  must  be  hot  an'  tired.  The  wash  dish  is  there 
beside  the  door.  You  better  use  it  before  Thomp- 
son an'  the  hands  comes,  they  always  slosh  every- 
thing all  up — they  don't  wash,  they  waller." 

"Mr.  Thompson  said  to  tell  you  you  could 
begin  to  dish  up  whenever  you're  ready." 

The  woman  smiled.  "Yes,  an'  have  every  thin* 
set  an'  git  cold,  while  they  feed  the  horses  an'  then 
like's  not,  stand  'round  a  spell  an'  size  up  the  hay 
stack,  er  mebbe  mend  a  piece  of  harness  or  some- 


Patty  Takes  Precautions       133 

thin'.  I  guess  you  ain't  married,  er  you  wouldn't 
expect  a  man  to  meals  'til  you  see  him  comin'. 
Seems  like  no  matter  how  hungry  they  be,  if 
they's  some  little  odd  job  they  can  find  to  do  just 
when  you  get  the  grub  set  on,  they  pick  that  time 
to  do  it.  'Specially  if  it's  somethin'  that  don't 
'mount  to  anythin',  an'  like's  not's  b'en  layin* 
'round  in  plain  sight  a  week." 

Patty  laughingly  admitted  she  was  not  married. 
"But,  I'd  teach  'em  a  lesson,"  she  said.  "I'd 
put  the  things  on  and  let  them  get  cold." 

The  older  woman  smiled,  and  at  the  sound  of 
voices,  peered  out  the  door:  "Here  they  come 
now,"  she  said,  and  proceeded  to  carry  heaping 
vegetable  dishes  and  a  steaming  platter  of  savory 
boiled  meat  from  the  stove  to  the  table.  There 
was  a  prodigious  splashing  outside  the  door  and  a 
moment  later  Thompson  appeared,  followed  by  his 
two  ranch  hands,  hair  wet  and  shining,  plastered 
tightly  to  their  scalps,  and  faces  aglow  from  vigor- 
ous scrubbing.  '  *  You  mind  Mr.  Sinclair,  that  used 
to  prospect  in  the  hills, "  introduced  Mrs.  Thomp- 
son; "this  is  his  daughter." 

Her  husband  bowed  awkwardly:  "Glad  to 
know  you.  We  know'd  yer  paw — used  to  stop 
now  an'  again  on  his  way  to  town.    He  was  a 


134  The  Gold  Girl 

smart  man.  Liked  to  talk  to  him.  He'd  be'n  all 
over."  The  man  turned  his  attention  to  his  plate 
and  the  meal  proceeded  in  solemn  silence  to  its 
conclusion.  The  two  ranch  hands  arose  and 
disappeared  through  the  door,  and  tilting  back  in 
his  chair  Thompson  produced  a  match  from  his 
pocket,  and  proceeded  to  whittle  it  into  a  tooth- 
pick. "I  heard  in  town  how  you  was  out  in 
the  hills,"  he  began.  "They  said  yer  paw  went 
back  East — "  he  paused  as  if  uncertain  how  to 
proceed. 

Patty  nodded:  "Yes,  he  went  back  home,  and 
this  spring  he  died.  He  told  me  he  had  made  a 
strike  and  I  came  out  here  to  locate  it. " 

The  kindly  brown  eyes  regarded  her  intently: 
"Ever  do  any  prospectin' ? " 

1 '  No.    This  is  my  first  experience. " 

"I  never,  either.  But,  if  I  was  you  I'd  kind  of 
have  an  eye  on  my  neighbors. " 

"You  mean— the  Wattses?"  asked  the  girl  in 
surprise. 

The  brown  eyes  were  twinkling  again:  "No, 
Watts,  he's  all  right!  Only  trouble  with  Watts 
is  he  sets  an'  herds  the  sun  all  day.  But,  they's 
others  besides  Watts  in  the  hills." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  girl,  quickly,  "I  know. 


Patty  Takes  Precautions      135 

And  that  is  the  reason  I  came  to  see  you  about  a 
horse." 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  one  you  got?" 

"  Nothing  at  all.  He  seems  to  be  a  good  horse. 
He's  fast  too,  when  I  want  to  crowd  him.  But,  I 
need  another  just  as  good  and  as  fast  as  he  is. 
Have  you  one  you  will  sell?" 

"I'll  sell  anything  I  got,  if  the  price  is  right," 
smiled  the  man. 

Patty  regarded  him  thoughtfully:  "I  haven't 
very  much  money,"  she  said.  "How  much  is  he 
worth?" 

Thompson  considered:  "A  horse  ain't  like  a 
cow-brute.  There  ain't  no  regular  market  price. 
Horses  is  worth  just  as  much  as  you  can  get  folks 
to  pay  fer  'em.  But  it  looks  like  one  horse  ort 
to  be  enough  to  prospect  'round  the  hills  on." 

"It  isn't  that,"  explained  the  girl.  "If  I  buy 
him  I  shall  try  to  arrange  with  you  to  leave  him 
right  here  where  I  can  get  him  at  a  moment's 
notice.  I  shall  probably  never  need  him  but  once, 
but  when  I  do,  I  shall  need  him  badly."  She 
paused,  but  without  comment  the  man  waited 
for  her  to  proceed :  "  I  believe  I  am  being  followed, 
and  if  I  am,  when  I  locate  the  claim,  I  am  going  to 
have  to  race  for  the  register's  office." 


136  The  Gold  Girl 

Thompson  leaned  forward  upon  the  table  and 
chewed  his  toothpick  rapidly:  "By  Gosh,  an'  you 
want  to  have  a  fresh  horse  here  for  a  change!"  he 
exclaimed,  his  eyes  beaming  approval. 

"Exactly.     Have  you  got  the  horse?" 

The  man  nodded:  "You  bet  I've  got  the  horse! 
I've  got  a  horse  out  there  in  the  corral  that'll  run 
rings  around  anythin'  in  this  country  unless  it's 
that  there  buckskin  of  Vil  Holland's — an'  I  guess 
you  ain't  goin'  to  have  no  call  to  race  him." 

Patty  was  on  the  point  of  exclaiming  that  the 
buckskin  was  the  very  horse  she  would  have  to 
race,  but  instead  she  smiled:  "But,  if  your  horse 
started  fresh  from  here,  and  even  Vil  Holland's 
horse  had  run  clear  from  the  mountains,  this  one 
could  beat  him  to  town,  couldn't  he?" 

"  Could  do  it  on  three  legs, "  laughed  the  man. 

"How  much  do  you  ask  for  him?"  The  girl 
waited  breathless,  thinking  of  her  diminishing 
bank  account. 

Thompson's  brow  wrinkled:  "I  hold  Lightnin' 
pretty  high,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "You  see, 
some  of  us  ranchers  is  holdin'  a  fast  horse  handy, 
a-waitin'  fer  word  from  the  hills — an'  when  it 
comes,  they's  goin'  to  be  the  biggest  horse-thief 
roundup  the  hill  country  ever  seen.     An'  unless 


Patty  Takes  Precautions       137 

I  miss  my  guess  they'll  be  some  that's  carried 
their  nose  pretty  high  that's  goin'  to  snap  down  on 
the  end  of  a  tight  one." 

"Now,  Thompson,  what's  the  use  of  talkin' 
like  that?  Them  things  is  bad  enough  to  have  to 
do,  let  alone  set  around  an'  talk  about  'em.  Any- 
one'd  think  you  took  pleasure  in  hangin'  folks." 

"I  would — some  folks." 

The  little  woman  turned  to  Patty:  "He's 
just  a-talkin'.  Chances  is,  if  it  come  to  hangin\ 
Thompson  would  be  the  one  to  try  an'  talk  'em 
out  of  it.  Why,  he  won't  even  brand  his  own  colts 
an'  calves — makes  the  hands  do  it." 

11  That's  different, "  defended  the  man.  "They- 
're little  an'  young  an'  they  ain't  never  done 
no  thin'  ornery." 

"But  you  haven't  told  me  how  much  you  want 
for  your  horse, "  persisted  the  girl. 

"Now  just  you  listen  to  me  a  minute.  I  don't 
want  to  sell  that  horse,  an'  there  ain't  no  mortal 
use  of  you  buy  in'  him.  He's  always  here — right 
in  the  corral  when  he  ain't  in  the  stable,  an'  either 
place,  all  you  got  to  do  is  throw  yer  kak  on  him  an' 
fog  it." 

The  girl  stared  at  him  in  surprise:  "You 
mean " 


138  The  Gold  Girl 

"I  mean  that  you're  plumb  welcome  to  use 
Lightnin'  whenever  you  need  him.  An'  if  they's 
anything  else  I  can  do  to  help  you  beat  out  any 
ornery  cuss  that'd  try  an'  hornswaggle  you  out  of 
yer  claim,  you  can  count  on  me  doin'  it!  An' 
whether  you  know  it  'er  not,  I  ain't  the  only 
one  you  can  count  on  in  a  pinch  neither."  The 
man  waved  her  thanks  aside  with  a  sweep  of  a 
big  hand,  and  rose  from  the  table.  "Miz  T.  an' 
me'd  like  fer  you  to  stop  in  whenever  you  feel 
like " 

"Yes,  indeed,  we  would,"  seconded  the  little 
woman.  "  Couldn't  you  come  over  an'  bring  yer 
sewin'  some  day?" 

Patty  laughed:  "I'm  afraid  I  haven't  much 
sewing  to  bring,  but  I'll  come  and  spend  the  day 
with  you  some  time.     I'd  love  to." 

The  girl  rode  homeward  with  a  lighter  heart 
than  she  had  known  in  some  time.  "Now  let 
him  follow  me  all  he  wants  to,"  she  muttered. 
"But  I  wonder  why  Mr.  Thompson  said  I  wouldn't 
have  to  race  the  buckskin.  And  who  did  he 
mean  I  could  count  on  in  a  pinch — Watts,  I  guess, 
or  maybe  he  meant  Mr.  Bethune." 

As  she  saddled  her  horse  next  morning,  Bethune 
presented  himself  at  the  cabin.     "Where  away?" 


Patty  Takes  Precautions       139 

he  smiled  as  he  rode  close,  and  swung  lightly  to 
the  ground. 

"Into  the  hills,"  she  answered,  "in  search  of 
my  father's  lost  mine." 

The  man's  expression  became  suddenly  grave: 
"Do  you  know,  Miss  Sinclair,  I  hate  to  think  of 
your  riding  these  hills  alone." 

Patty  glanced  at  him  in  surprise:  "Why?" 

"There  are  several  reasons.  For  instance,  one 
never  knows  what  will  happen — a  misstep  on  a 
dangerous  trail — a  broken  cinch — any  one  of  a 
hundred  things  may  happen  in  the  wilds  that  mean 
death  or  serious  injury,  even  to  the  initiated. 
And  the  danger  is  tenfold  in  the  case  of  a  tender- 
foot." 

The  girl  laughed:  "Thank  you.  But,  if  any- 
thing is  going  to  happen,  it's  going  to  happen. 
At  least,  I  am  in  no  danger  from  being  run  down 
by  a  street  car  or  an  automobile.  And  I  can't  be 
blown  up  by  a  gas  explosion,  or  fall  into  a  coal 
hole." 

"But  there  are  other  dangers,"  persisted  the 
man.  "A  woman,  alone  in  the  hills — especially 
you." 

"Why  'especially  me'?  Plenty  of  women  have 
lived  alone  before  in  places  more  dangerous  than 


140  The  Gold  Girl 

this,  and  have  gotten  along  very  well,  too.  You 
men  are  conceited.  You  think  there  can  be  no 
possible  safety  unless  members  of  your  own  sex  are 
at  the  helm  of  every  undertaking  or  enterprise. 
But  you  are  wrong." 

Bethune  shook  his  head:  "But  I  have  reason 
to  believe  that  there  is  at  least  one  person  in  these 
hills  who  believes  you  possess  the  secret  of  your 
father's  strike — and  who  would  stop  at  nothing 
to  obtain  that  secret." 

' '  I  suppose  you  mean  Vil  Holland.  I  agree  that 
he  does  seem  to  take  more  than  a  passing  interest 
in  my  comings  and  goings.  But  he  doesn't  seem 
very  fierce.  Anyhow,  I  am  not  in  the  least 
afraid  of  him." 

"What  do  you  mean  that  he  seems  to  take 
an  interest  in  your  comings  and  goings?"  The 
question  seemed  a  bit  eager.  ' '  Surely  he  has  not 
been  following  you!" 

"Hasn't  he?  Then  possibly  you  can  tell  me 
who  has?" 

1  ■  The  scoundrel !  And  when  you  discover  the  lode 
he'll  wait  'til  you  have  set  your  stakes  and  posted 
your  notice,  and  have  gotten  out  of  sight,  and  then 
he'll  drive  in  his  own  stakes,  stick  up  his  own  notice 
beside  them  and  beat  you  to  the  register." 


Patty  Takes  Precautions       H1 

Patty  laughed:  "Race  me,  you  mean.  He 
won't  beat  me.  Remember,  I  shall  have  at  least 
a  half-hour's  start." 

"A  half-hour!"  exclaimed  Bethune.  "And 
what  is  a  half -hour  in  a  fifty -mile  race  against  that 
buckskin.  Why,  my  dear  girl,  with  all  due  respect 
for  that  horse  of  yours,  Vil  Holland's  horse  could 
give  you  two  hours'  start  and  beat  you  to  the 
railroad." 

"Maybe,  "  smiled  the  girl.  "But  he's  going  to 
have  to  do  it — that  is,  if  I  ever  locate  the  lode." 

"Ah,  that  is  the  point,  exactly.  It  is  that  that 
brings  me  here.  Not  that  alone,"  he  hastened 
to  add.  "For  I  would  ride  far  any  day  to  spend 
a  few  moments  with  so  charming  a  lady — and 
indeed,  I  should  not  have  delayed  my  visit  this 
long  but  for  some  urgent  business  to  the  north- 
ward. At  all  events,  I'm  here,  and  here  I  shall 
stay  until,  together,  we  have  solved  our  mystery 
of  the  hills." 

The  girl  glanced  into  the  face  alight  with 
boyish  enthusiasm,  and  felt  irresistibly  impelled 
to  take  this  man  into  her  confidence — to  enlist  his 
help  in  the  working  out  of  her  unintelligible  map, 
and  to  admit  him  to  full  partnership  in  her  under- 
taking.    There  would  be  enough  for  both  if  they 


H2  The  Gold  Girl 

succeeded  in  uncovering  the  lode.  Her  father  had 
intended  that  he  should  share  in  his  mine.  She 
recalled  his  eulogy  of  her  father,  and  his  frank 
admission  that  there  had  been  no  agreement  of 
partnership.  If  anyone  ever  had  the  appearance 
of  perfect  sincerity  and  candor  this  man  had. 
She  remembered  her  seriously  depleted  bank 
account.  Bethune  had  money,  and  in  case  the 
search  should  prove  long —  Suddenly  the  words 
of  Vil  Holland  flashed  into  her  brain  with  startling 
abruptness :  ' '  Remember  yer  dad  knew  enough  to 
play  a  lone  hand."  And  again.  "Did  yer  dad 
tell  you  about  this  partnership?"  And  the  signi- 
ficant emphasis  he  placed  upon  the  "Oh,"  when 
she  had  answered  in  the  negative. 

Bethune  evidently  had  taken  her  silence  for 
assent.  He  was  speaking  again:  "The  first 
thing  to  do  is  to  find  the  starting  point  on  the  map 
and  work  it  out  step  by  step,  then  when  we  locate 
the  lode,  you  and  Clen  and  I  will  file  the  first 
three  claims,  and  we'll  file  all  the  Wattses  on  the 
adjoining  claims.  That  will  give  us  absolute 
control  of  a  big  block  of  what  is  probably  a  most 
valuable  property." 

Again  Bethune  had  referred  directly  to  the  map 
which  she  had  never  admitted  she  possessed.     He 


Patty  Takes  Precautions       143 

had  not  said,  "If  you  have  a  map."  The  man's 
assumption  angered  her:  "You  still  persist  in 
assuming  that  I  have  a  map,"  she  answered. 
"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  depending  entirely  upon 
a  photograph.  I  am  riding  blindly  through  the 
hills  trying  to  find  the  spot  that  tallies  with  the 
picture." 

Bethune  frowned  and  shook  his  head  doubt- 
fully: "You  might  ride  the  hills  for  years,  and 
pass  the  spot  a  dozen  times  and  never  recognize 
it.  If  you  do  not  happen  to  strike  the  exact  view- 
point you  might  easily  fail  to  recognize  it.  Then, 
too,  the  landscape  changes  with  the  seasons  of  the 
year.  However,"  his  face  brightened  and  the 
smile  returned  to  his  lips;  "we  have  at  least  some- 
thing to  go  on.  We  are  not  absolutely  in  the 
dark.  Who  knows?  If  the  goddess  of  luck  sits 
upon  our  shoulders,  I  myself  may  know  the  place 
well — may  recognize  it  instantly!  For  years  I 
have  ridden  these  hills  and  I  flatter  myself  that  no 
one  knows  their  hidden  nooks  and  byways  better 
than  I.  Even  if  I  should  not  know  the  exact 
spot,  it  may  be  that  I  can  tell  by  the  general  fea- 
tures its  approximate  locality,  and  thus  limit  our 
search  to  a  comparatively  small  area." 

Patty  knew  that  her  refusal  to  show  the  photo- 


i44  The  Gold  Girl 

graph  could  not  fail  to  place  her  in  an  unfavorable 
position.  Either  she  would  appear  to  distrust  this 
man  whom  she  had  no  reason  to  distrust,  or  her 
action  would  be  attributed  to  a  selfish  intention 
to  keep  the  secret  to  herself,  even  though  she 
knew  she  could  only  file  one  claim.  The  man's 
argument  had  been  entirely  reasonable — in  fact, 
it  seemed  the  sensible  thing  to  do.  Nevertheless, 
she  did  refuse,  and  refuse  flatly:  "I  think,  Mr. 
Bethune,  that  I  would  rather  play  a  lone  hand. 
You  see,  I  started  in  on  this  thing  alone,  and  I 
want  to  see  it  through — for  the  present,  at  least. 
After  a  while,  if  I  find  that  I  cannot  succeed  alone, 
I  shall  be  glad  of  your  assistance.  I  suppose  you 
think  me  a  fool,  but  it's  a  matter  of  pride, I  guess." 
Was  it  fancy,  or  did  the  black  eyes  flash  a  gleam 
of  hate — a  glitter  of  rage  beneath  their  long  up- 
curving  lashes?  And  did  the  swarthy  face  flush 
a  shade  darker  beneath  its  tan?  Patty  could 
not  be  sure,  for  the  next  moment  he  was  speaking 
in  a  voice  under  perfect  control:  "I  can  well 
understand  your  feeling  in  the  matter,  Miss 
Sinclair,  and  I  have  nothing  of  reproach.  I  do 
think  you  are  making  a  mistake.  With  Vil  Hol- 
land knowing  what  he  does  of  your  father's  opera- 
tions, time  may  be  a  vital  factor  in  the  success  of 


Patty  Takes  Precautions       H5 

your  undertaking.  Let  me  caution  you  again 
against  carrying  the  photograph  upon  your 
person." 

"Oh,  I  keep  that  safely  hidden  where  no  one 
would  ever  think  of  searching  for  it,"  smiled  the 
girl,  and  Bethune  noted  that  her  eyes  involun- 
tarily swept  the  cabin  with  a  glance. 

The  man  mounted:  "I  will  no  longer  keep 
you  from  your  work,"  he  said.  "I  have  ar- 
ranged to  spend  the  summer  in  the  hills  where 
I  shall  carry  on  some  prospecting  upon  my  own 
account.  If  I  can  be  of  any  assistance  to  you — 
if  you  should  need  any  advice,  or  help  of  any 
kind,  a  word  will  procure  it.  I  shall  stop  in 
occasionally  to  see  how  you  fare.  Good-bye." 
He  waved  his  hand  and  rode  off  down  the  creek 
where,  in  a  cottonwood  thicket  he  dismounted  and 
watched  the  girl  ride  away  in  the  opposite  direction, 
noted  that  Lord  Clendenning  swung  stealthily, 
into  the  trail  behind  her,  and  swinging  into  his 
saddle  rode  swiftly  toward  the  cabin. 

In  his  high  notch  in  the  hills,  Vil  Holland 
chuckled  audibly,  and  catching  up  his  horse, 
headed  for  his  camp. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   BISHOP   OF  ALL   OUTDOORS 

The  days  slipped  into  weeks,  as  Patty  Sinclair, 
carefully  and  methodically  traced  valleys  to 
their  sources,  and  explored  innumerable  coulees 
and  ravines  that  twisted  and  turned  their  tortuous 
lengths  into  the  very  heart  of  the  hills.  Rock 
ledges  without  number  she  scanned,  many  with 
deep  cracks  and  fissures,  and  many  without  them. 
But  not  once  did  she  find  a  ledge  that  could  by 
any  stretch  of  the  imagination  be  regarded  as  the 
ledge  of  the  photograph.  Disheartened,  but  not 
discouraged,  the  girl  would  return  each  evening 
to  her  solitary  cabin,  eat  her  solitary  meal,  and 
throw  herself  upon  her  bunk  to  brood  over  the 
apparent  hopelessness  of  her  enterprise,  or  to  read 
from  the  thumbed  and  tattered  magazines  of  the 
dispossessed  sheep  herder.  She  rode,  now,  with 
a  sort  of  dogged  persistence.  There  was  none  of 
the  wild  thrill  that,  during  the  first  days  of  her 

146 


The  Bishop  of  All  Outdoors     147 

search,  she  experienced  each  time  she  topped  a  new 
divide,  or  entered  a  new  valley. 

Three  times  since  she  had  informed  him  she 
would  play  a  lone  hand  in  the  search  for  her 
father's  strike,  Bethune  had  called  at  the  cabin. 
And  not  once  had  he  alluded  to  the  progress  of  her 
work.  She  was  thankful  to  him  for  that — she  had 
not  forgotten  the  hurt  in  her  father's  eyes  as  the 
taunting  questions  of  the  scoffers  struck  home. 
Always  she  had  known  of  the  hurt,  but  now,  with 
the  disheartening  days  of  her  own  failure  heaping 
themselves  upon  her,  she  was  beginning  to  under- 
stand the  reason  for  the  hurt.  And,  guessing 
this,  Bethune  refrained  from  questioning,  but 
talked  gaily  of  books,  and  sunsets,  and  of  life,  and 
love,  and  the  joy  of  living.  A  supreme  optimist, 
she  thought  him,  despite  the  half -veiled  cynicism 
that  threaded  his  somewhat  fatalistic  view  of  life, 
a  cynicism  that  but  added  the  necessary  sauce 
piquante  to  so  abandoned  an  optimism. 

Above  all,  the  man  was  a  gentleman.  His 
speech  held  nothing  of  the  abrupt  bluntness  of 
Vil  Holland's.  He  would  appear  shortly  after  her 
early  supper,  and  was  always  well  upon  his  way 
before  the  late  darkness  began  to  obscure  the 
contours  of  her  little  valley.    An  hour's  chat 


148  The  Gold  Girl 

upon  the  doorstep  of  the  cabin  and  he  was  gone — 
riding  down  the  valley,  singing  as  he  rode  some  old 
chanson  of  his  French  forebears,  with  always  a 
pause  at  the  cottonwood  grove  for  a  farewell  wave 
of  his  hat.  And  Patty  would  turn  from  the  door- 
way, and  light  her  lamp,  and  proceed  to  enjoy  the 
small  present  which  he  never  failed  to  leave  in  her 
hand — a  box  of  bon-bons  of  a  kind  she  had  vainly 
sought  for  in  the  little  town — again,  a  novel,  a 
woman's  novel  written  by  a  man  who  thought 
he  knew — and  another  time,  just  a  handful  of 
wild  flowers  gathered  in  the  hills.  She  ate  the 
candy  making  it  last  over  several  days.  She 
read  the  book  from  cover  to  cover  as  she  lay  upon 
her  air  mattress,  tucked  snugly  between  her 
blankets.  And  she  arranged  the  wild  flowers 
loosely  in  a  shallow  bowl  and  watered  them,  and 
talked  to  them,  and  admired  their  beauty,  and  when 
they  were  wilted  she  threw  them  out,  but  she  did 
not  gather  more  flowers  to  fill  the  bowl,  instead 
she  wiped  it  dry  and  returned  it  to  its  shelf  in  the 
cupboard — and  wondered  when  Bethune  would 
come  again.  She  admitted  to  herself  that  he 
interested — at  least,  amused  her — helped  her  to 
throw  off  for  the  moment  the  spirit  of  dull  depres- 
sion that  had  fastened   itself   upon   her   like  a 


The  Bishop  of  All  Outdoors     149 

tangible  thing,  bearing  down  upon  her,  threatening 
to  crush  her  with  its  weight. 

Always,  during  these  brief  visits,  her  lurking 
distrust  of  him  vanished  in  the  frank  boyishness 
of  his  personality.  The  incidents  that  had  engen- 
dered the  distrust — the  substitution  of  the  name 
Schultz  for  Schmidt  in  the  matter  of  the  horse 
pasture,  his  abrupt  warning  against  Vil  Holland, 
and  his  attempt  to  be  admitted  into  her  confidence 
as  a  matter  of  right,  were  for  the  moment  for- 
gotten in  the  spell  of  his  presence — but  always 
during  her  lonely  rides  in  the  hills,  the  half- 
formed  doubt  returned.  Pondering  the  doubt, 
she  realized  that  the  principal  reason  for  its 
continued  existence  was  not  so  much  in  the  in- 
cidents that  had  awakened  it,  as  in  the  simple 
question  asked  by  Vil  Holland:  "You  say  your 
(fed  told  you  all  about  this  partnership  busi- 
ness?" And  in  the  "Oh,"  with  which  he  had 
greeted  the  reply  that  she  had  it  from  the  lips 
of  Bethune.  With  the  realization,  her  dislike  for 
Vil  Holland  increased.  She  characterized  him  as 
a  "jug-guzzler,"  a  "swashbuckler,"  and  a  "ruf- 
fian"— and  smiled  as  she  recalled  the  picturesque 
figure  with  the  cleancut,  bronzed  face.  "Oh, 
I    don't    know — I    hate    these   hills!      Nobody 


150  The  Gold  Girl 

seems  sincere  excepting  the  Wattses,  and  they're 
— impossible!" 

She  had  borrowed  Watts's  team  and  made  a 
second  trip  to  town  for  supplies,  and  the  check 
that  she  drew  in  payment  cut  her  bank  account  in 
half.  As  before  she  had  offered  to  take  Microby 
Dandeline,  but  the  girl  declined  to  go,  giving  as 
an  excuse  that  "pitcher  shows  wasn't  as  good  as 
circusts,  an*  they  wasn't  no  fights,  an'  she  didn't 
like  towns,  nohow." 

Upon  her  return  from  town  Patty  stopped  at  the 
Thompsons'  for  dinner  where  she  was  accorded 
a  royal  welcome  by  the  genial  rancher  and  his 
wife,  and  where  also,  she  met  the  Reverend  Len 
Christie,  the  most  picturesque,  and  the  most  un- 
clerical  minister  of  the  gospel  she  had  ever  seen. 
To  all  appearances  the  man  might  have  been  a 
cowboy.  He  affected  chaps  of  yellow  hair,  a  dark 
blue  flannel  shirt,  against  which  flamed  a  scarf  of 
brilliant  crimson  caught  together  by  means  of  a 
vivid  green  scarab.  He  wore  a  roll  brimmed 
Stetson,  and  carried  a  six-gun  at  his  belt.  A  pair 
of  high-heeled  boots  added  a  couple  of  inches  to 
the  six  feet  two  that  nature  had  provided  him 
with,  and  he  shook  hands  as  though  he  enjoyed 
shaking  hands.     "I've  heard  of  you,  Miss  Sin- 


The  Bishop  of  All  Outdoors    151 

clair,  back  in  town  and  have  looked  forward  to 
meeting  you  on  my  first  trip  into  the  hills.  How 
are  my  friends,  the  Wattses,  these  days?  And  that 
reprobate,  Vil  Holland  ?"  He  did  not  mention 
that  it  was  Vil  Holland  who  had  spoken  of  her 
presence  in  the  hills,  nor  that  the  cowboy  had  also 
specified  that  she  utterly  despised  the  ground  he 
rode  on. 

To  her  surprise  Patty  noticed  that  there  was 
affection  rather  than  disapprobation  in  the  word 
reprobate,  and  she  answered  a  trifle  stiffly :  "The 
Wattses  are  all  well,  I  think:  but,  as  for  Mr. 
Holland,  I  really  cannot  answer." 

The  parson  appeared  not  to  notice  the  constraint 
but  turned  to  Thompson:  "By  the  way,  Tom, 
why  isn't  Vil  riding  the  roundup  this  year?  Has 
he  made  his  strike?'' 

Thompson  grinned:  "Naw,  Vil  ain't  made  no 
strike.  Facts  is,  they's  be'n  some  considerable 
horse  liftin'  goin'  on  lately,  an'  the  stockmen's 
payin'  Vil  wages  fer  to  keep  his  eye  peeled.  He's 
out  in  the  hills  all  the  time  anyhow  with  his 
prospectin',  an'  they  figger  the  thieves  won't  pay 
no  'tention  to  him,  like  if  a  stranger  was  to  begin 
kihootin'  'round  out  there." 

"Have  they  got  a  line  on  'em  at  all?" 


152  The  Gold  Girl 

"Well,"  considered  Thompson.  "Not  as  I 
know  of — exactly.  Monk  Bethune  an'  that  there 
Lord  Clendennin'  is  hangin'  'round  the  hills — 
that's  about  all  I  know." 

The  parson  nodded:  "I  saw  Bethune  in  town 
the  other  day.  Do  you  know,  Tom,  I  believe 
there's  a  bad  Injun." 

"Indian!"  cried  the  girl.  "Mr.  Bethune  is  not 
an  Indian!" 

Thompson  laughed:  "Yup,  that  is,  he's  a 
breed.  They  say  his  gran'mother  was  a  Cree 
squaw — daughter  of  a  chief,  or  somethin'.  Any- 
ways, this  here  Monk,  he's  a  pretty  slick  article, 
I  guess." 

"They're  apt  to  be  worse  than  either  the  whites 
or  the  Indians,"  Christie  explained.  "And  this 
Monk  Bethune  is  an  educated  man,  which  should 
make  him  doubly  dangerous.  Well,  I  must  be 
going.  I've  got  to  ride  clear  over  onto  Big 
Porcupine.  I  heard  that  old  man  Samuelson's 
very  sick.  There's  a  good  man — old  Samuelson. 
Hope  he'll  pull  through." 

"You  bet  he's  a  good  man ! "  assented  Thompson, 
warmly.  "He  seen  Bill  Winters  through,  when 
they  tried  to  prove  the  murder  of  Jack  Bronson 
onto  him,  an'  it  cost  him  a  thousan'  dollars.     The 


The  Bishop  of  All  Outdoors     153 

districk  attorney  had  it  in  fer  Bill,  count  of  him 
courtin'  his  gal." 

"Yes,  and  I  could  tell  of  a  dozen  things  the  old 
man  has  done  for  people  that  nobody  but  I  ever 
knew  about — in  some  instances  even  the  people 
themselves  didn't  know."  He  turned  to  Patty: 
"Good-by,  Miss  Sinclair.  I'm  mighty  glad  to 
have  met  you.  I  knew  your  father  very  well. 
If  you  see  the  Wattses,  tell  them  I  shall  try  and 
swing  around  that  way  on  my  return."  The 
parson  mounted  a  raw-boned,  Roman-nosed  pinto, 
whose  vivid  calico  markings,  together  with  the 
rider's  brilliant  scarf  gave  a  most  unministerial, 
not  to  say  bizarre  effect  to  the  outfit.  "So  long, 
Tom,"  he  called. 

"So  long,  Len!  If  they's  anything  we  can  do, 
let  us  know.  An'  be  sure  an'  stop  in  comin'  back. ' ' 
Thompson  watched  the  man  until  he  vanished  in 
a  cloud  of  dust  far  out  on  the  trail. 

"Best  doggone  preacher  ever  was  born,"  he 
vouchsafed.  "He  can  ride,  an'  shoot,  an'  rope, 
an'  everything  a  man  ort  to.  An'  if  anyone's 
sick!  Well,  he's  worth  all  the  doctors  an'  nurses 
in  the  State  of  Montany.  He'll  make  you  git  well 
just  'cause  he  wants  you  to.  An*  they  ain't 
nothin'    too    much    trouble — an'    they   ain't    no 


154  The  Gold  Girl 

work  too  hard  for  him  to  tackle.  There  ain't  no 
piousness  stickin'  out  on  him  fer  folks  to  hang 
their  hat  on,  neither.  He'll  mix  with  the  boys, 
an'  listen  to  the  natural  cussin'  an'  swearin'  that 
goes  on  wherever  cattle's  handled,  an'  enjoy  it — 
but  just  you  let  some  shorthorn  start  what  you 
might  call  vicious  or  premeditated  cussin' — some- 
thin'  special  wicked  or  vile,  an'  he'll  find  out 
there's  a  parson  in  the  crowd  right  quick,  an'  if 
he  don't  shut  up,  chances  is,  he'll  be  spittin'  out 
a  couple  of  teeth.  There's  one  parson  can  fight, 
an'  the  boys  know  it,  an*  what's  more  they  know 
he  will  fight — an'  they  ain't  one  of  'em  that 
wouldn't  back  up  his  play,  neither.  An'  preach! 
Why  he  can  tear  loose  an'  make  you  feel  sorry  for 
every  mean  trick  you  ever  done — not  for  fear  of 
any  punishment  after  yer  dead — but  just  because 
it  wasn't  playin'  the  game.  That's  him,  every 
time.  An'  he  ain't  always  hollerin'  about  hell — 
hearin'  him  preach  you  wouldn't  hardly  know 
they  was  a  hell.  'The  Bishop  of  All  Outdoors,' 
they  call  him — an'  they  say  he  can  go  back  East 
an'  preach  to  city  folks,  an'  make  'em  set  up  an* 
take  notice,  same  as  out  here.  He's  be'n  offered 
three  times  what  he  gets  here  to  go  where  he'd 
have  it  ten  times  easier — but  he  laughs  at  'em. 


The  Bishop  of  All  Outdoors     155 

He  sure  is  one  preacher  that  ain't  afraid  of 
work!" 

As  Watts 's  team  plodded  the  hot  miles  of  the  in- 
terminable trail  Patty's  brain  revolved  wearily 
about  its  problem.  ' ' I've  made  almost  a  complete 
circle  of  the  cabin,  and  I  haven't  found  the  rock 
ledge  with  the  crack  in  it  yet — and  as  for  daddy's 
old  map — I've  spent  hours  trying  to  figure  out 
what  that  jumble  of  letters  and  numbers  mean, 
I'll  just  have  to  start  all  over  again  and  keep 
reaching  farther  and  farther  into  the  hills  on  my 
rides.  Mr.  Bethune  said  I  might  not  recognize 
the  place  when  I  come  to  it ! "  she  laughed  bitterly. 
1 '  If  he  knew  how  that  photograph  has  burned  itself 
into  my  brain !  I  can  close  my  eyes  and  see  that 
rock  wall  with  its  peculiar  crack,  and  the  rock- 
strewn  valley,  and  the  lone  tree — recognize  it! 
I  would  know  it  in  the  dark!" 

Her  eyes  rested  upon  the  various  packages  of 
her  load  of  supplies.  ' '  One  more  trip  to  town,  and 
my  prospecting  is  done,  at  least,  until  I  can  earn 
some  more  money.  The  prices  out  here  are  out- 
rageous. It's  the  freight,  the  man  told  me.  Five 
cents' freight  on  a  penny's  worth  of  food!  But 
what  in  the  world  can  I  do  to  make  money  ?  What 
can  anybody  do  to  make  money  in  this  God- 


156  The  Gold  Girl 

forsaken  country?  I  can't  punch  cattle,  nor  herd 
sheep.  I  don't  see  why  I  had  to  be  a  girl!"  Re- 
sentment against  her  accident  of  birth  cooled, 
and  her  mind  again  took  up  its  burden  of  thought. 
M There  is  one  way,"  she  muttered.  ''And  that 
is  to  admit  failure  and  take  Mr.  Bethune  into 
partnership.  He  will  advance  the  money  and  help 
with  the  work — and,  surely  there  will  be  enough 
for  two.  And,  I'm  not  so  sure  but  that — "  She 
broke  off  shortly  and  felt  the  hot  blood  rise  in  a 
furious  blush,  as  she  glanced  guiltily  about  her — 
but  in  all  the  vast  stretch  of  plain  was  no  human 
being,  and  she  laughed  aloud  at  the  antics  of 
the  prairie  dogs  that  scolded  and  barked  saucily 
and  then  dove  precipitously  into  their  holes  as 
a  lean  coyote  trotted  diagonally  through  their 
"town." 

What  was  it  they  had  said  at  Thompson's  about 
Mr.  Bethune?  Despite  herself  she  had  approved 
the  outlandishly  dressed  preacher  with  the  smiling 
blue  eyes.  He  was  so  big,  and  so  wholesome! 
"The  Bishop  of  All  Outdoors,"  Thompson  had 
called  him.  She  liked  that — and  somehow  the 
name  seemed  to  fit.  Looking  into  those  eyes  no 
one  could  doubt  his  sincerity — his  every  word,  his 
every  motion  spoke  unbounded  enthusiasm  for  his 


The  Bishop  of  All  Outdoors    157 

work.  What  was  it  he  had  said  ?  ' '  Do  you  know, 
Tom,  I  believe  there's  a  bad  Injun. "  And  Thomp- 
son had  referred  to  Bethune  as  "a  pretty  slick 
article.' '  Surely,  Thompson,  whole-souled,  gener- 
ous Thompson,  would  not  malign  a  man.  Here 
were  two  men  whom  the  girl  knew  instinctively 
she  could  trust,  who  stood  four-square  with  the 
world,  and  whose  opinions,  must  carry  weight. 
And  both  had  spoken  with  suspicion  of  Bethune 
and  both  had  spoken  of  Vil  Holland  as  one  of 
themselves.  "I  don't  understand  it,"  she  mut- 
tered. "  Everybody  seems  to  be  against  Mr. 
Bethune,  and  everybody  seems  to  like  Vil  Holland, 
in  spite  of  his  jug,  and  his  gun,  and  his  boorishness. 
Maybe  it's  because  Mr.  Bethune's  a — a  breed," 
she  speculated.  "Why,  they  even  hinted  that 
he's  a — a  horse-thief.  It  isn't  fair  to  despise  him 
for  his  Indian  blood.  Why  should  he  be  made 
to  suffer  because  his  grandmother  was  an  Indian — 
the  daughter  of  a  Cree  chief  ?  It  sounds  interesting 
and  romantic.  The  people  of  some  of  our  very 
best  families  point  with  pride  to  the  fact  that  they 
are  descendants  of  Pocahontas!  Poor  fellow, 
everybody  seems  down  on  him — everybody  that 
is,  but  Ma  Watts  and  Microby.  And,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  appears  to  better  advantage  than  any 


158  The  Gold  Girl 

of  them,  not  excepting  the  very  militant  and  un- 
orthodox 'Bishop  of  All  Outdoors/  " 

The  result  of  the  girl's  cogitations  left  her 
exactly  where  she  started.  She  was  no  nearer 
the  solution  of  her  problem  of  the  hills.  And  her 
lurking  doubt  of  Bethune  still  remained  despite 
the  excuses  she  invented  to  account  for  his  un- 
popularity, nor  had  her  opinion  of  Vil  Holland 
been  altered  in  the  least. 

Upon  arriving  at  her  cabin  she  was  not  at  all 
surprised  to  find  that  it  had  been  thoroughly 
searched,  albeit  with  less  care  than  the  searcher 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  bestowing  upon  the 
readjustment  of  the  various  objects  of  the  room 
exactly  as  she  had  left  them.  Canned  goods  and 
dishes  were  disarranged  upon  their  shelves,  and 
the  loose  section  of  floor  board  beneath  her  bunk 
that  had  evidently  served  as  the  secret  cache  of 
the  sheep  herder,  had  been  fitted  clumsily  into  its 
place.  The  evident  boldness,  or  carelessness  of 
this  latest  outrage  angered  her  as  no  previous 
search  had  done.  Heretofore  each  object  had 
been  returned  to  its  place  with  painstaking 
accuracy  so  that  it  had  been  only  through 
the  use  of  fine-spun  cobwebs  and  carefully 
arranged  bits  of  dust  that  she  had  been   able 


The  Bishop  of  All  Outdoors    159 

to  verify  her  suspicion  that  the  room  had 
really  been  searched — and  there  had  been  times 
when  even  the  dust  and  the  cobwebs  had  been 
replaced.  Whoever  had  been  searching  the  cabin 
had  proven  himself  a  master  of  detail,  and  had 
at  least,  paid  her  the  compliment  of  possessing 
imagination,  and  a  shrewdness  equaling  his  own. 
Was  it  possible  that  the  searcher,  emboldened  by 
her  repeated  failure  to  spy  upon  him  at  his  work, 
had  ceased  to  care  whether  or  not  she  knew  of  his 
visits?  The  girl  recalled  the  three  weary  days 
she  had  spent  watching  from  the  hillside.  And 
how  she  had  decided  to  buy  a  lock  for  her  door, 
until  the  futility  of  it  had  been  brought  home  to 
her  by  the  discovery  that  her  trunks  were  being 
searched  along  with  her  other  belongings,  and 
their  locks  left  in  perfect  condition.  So  far,  he 
might  well  scorn  her  puny  attempts  at  discovery. 
Or,  had  a  new  factor  entered  the  game?  Had 
someone  of  cruder  mold  undertaken  to  discover 
her  secret?  The  thought  gave  her  a  decided 
uneasiness.  Tired  out  by  her  trip,  she  did  not 
light  the  fire,  and  after  disposing  of  the  cold  lunch 
Mrs.  Thompson  had  put  up  for  her,  affixed  the 
bar,  and  went  to  bed,  with  her  six-gun  within 
reach  of  her  hand. 


i6o  The  Gold  Girl 

For  a  long  time  she  lay  in  the  darkness,  thinking. 
"The  way  it  was  before,  I  haven't  been  in  any 
physical  danger.  Mr.  Vil  Holland  knows  that  if 
what  he  is  searching  for  is  not  here  I  must  carry 
it  on  my  person.  The  obvious  way  to  get  it 
would  be  to  take  it  away  from  me.  Of  course 
the  only  way  he  could  do  that  without  my  seeing 
him  would  be  to  kill  me.  He  hesitates  at  murder. 
Either  there  are  depths  of  moral  turpitude  into 
which  he  will  not  descend — or,  he  fears  the  con- 
sequences. He  has  imagination.  He  assumes 
that  sometime  I'll  leave  that  packet  at  home — 
either  through  carelessness,  or  because  I  have 
learned  its  contents  by  heart  and  don't  need  it. 
In  the  meantime,  in  addition  to  his  patient  search- 
ing of  the  cabin,  he  is  taking  no  chances,  and  while 
he  waits  for  the  inevitable  to  happen  he  is  follow- 
ing me  so  if  I  do  succeed  in  locating  the  claim,  he 
can  beat  me  to  the  register.  It's  a  pretty  game — 
no  violence — only  patience  and  brains.  But  this 
other,"  she  shuddered,  "there  is  something  posi- 
tively brutal  in  the  crude  awkwardness  of  his  work. 
If  he  thinks  I  carry  what  he  wants  with  me,  would 
he  hesitate  at  murder?  I  guess  I'll  have  to  carry 
that  gun  again — and  I  better  practice  with  it,  too. 
If  I  can  only  get  rid  of  this  last  one,  I  believe  I've 


The  Bishop  of  All  Outdoors     161 

got  a  scheme  for  catching  the  other!"  She  sat 
bolt  upright  in  bed.  "Oh,  if  I  only  could!  If  I 
could  only  beat  him  at  his  own  game — and  I 
believe  I  can!"  For  several  minutes  she  sat 
thinking  rapidly,  and  as  she  lay  back  upon  her 
pillow,  she  smiled. 


CHAPTER  XI 

LORD   CLENDENNING   GETS   A  DUCKING 

Patty  awoke  at  dawn  and  dressed  hurriedly. 
Shivering  in  the  chill  air,  she  lighted  a  match  and 
pushed  back  a  lid  of  the  little  cast  iron  cook  stove. 
Instead  of  the  "cold  fire"  of  neatly  arranged  wood 
and  kindlings  that  she  had  built  before  leaving  for 
town  a  pile  of  gray  ashes  and  blackened  ends  of 
charcoal  greeted  her. 

"Whoever  it  was  knew  he  had  plenty  of  time 
at  his  disposal  so  he  helped  himself  to  a  meal," 
she  muttered  angrily.  "He  might,  at  least,  have 
cut  me  some  kindlings.  I'm  surprised  that  he 
had  the  good  grace  to  wash  up  his  dirty  dishes." 
A  few  moments  later,  as  the  fire  crackled  merrily 
in  the  stove,  she  picked  up  the  water  pail  and 
stepping  through  the  door,  threw  back  her  head 
and  breathed  deeply  of  the  crisp  mountain  air. 
"Oh,  it's  wonderful  just  to  be  alive!"  she  whis- 
pered.    "Even  if  everybody  is  against  you.     It's 

162 


Clendenning  Gets  a  Ducking      163 

just  like  a  great  big  game  and,  oh,  I  want  to  win ! 
I've  got  to  win ! "  she  added,  grimly,  as  her  thoughts 
flew  to  her  depleted  bank  account. 

At  the  spring  she  paused  in  the  act  of  filling  her 
pail  and  stared  at  a  mark  in  the  mud  at  the  edge 
of  the  tiny  rill  formed  by  the  overflow  from  the 
catch  basin.  She  leaned  over  and  examined  the 
mark  more  closely.  It  was  the  track  of  a  bare 
foot.  Then,  for  the  first  time  in  many  days,  the 
girl  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed.  '  Microby 
Dandeline!"  she  cried.  "And  I  was  picturing 
some  skulking  murderer  lying  in  wait  to  pounce 
on  me  at  the  first  opportunity.  And  here  it  was 
only  poor  little  Microby  who  happened  along,  and 
with  her  natural  curiosity  pawed  over  everything 
in  the  cabin,  and  then  decided  it  would  be  a  grand 
stunt  to  cook  herself  a  meal  and  eat  it  at  my  table 
— and  I  haven't  the  least  doubt  that  she  arrayed 
herself  in  one  of  my  dresses  when  she  did  it." 
Patty  hummed  a  light  tune  as,  water  pail  in  hand, 
she  made  her  way  up  the  path  to  the  cabin. 
"  Whee !  but  it's  a  relief  to  feel  that  I  won't  have  to 
ride  these  hills  peering  behind  every  tree  and  rock 
for  a  lurking  assassin.  And  I  won't  have  to  carry 
that  horrid  heavy  old  gun,  either." 

After  breakfast  she  saddled  her  horse  and  headed 


164  The  Gold  Girl 

up  the  ravine  that  she  had  followed  upon  the  morn- 
ing of  her  first  ride.  At  the  top  of  the  divide 
she  pulled  up  her  horse  and  gazed  downward  at 
the  little  cabin.  As  before  she  was  impressed  by 
the  startling  distinctness  with  which  each  object 
was  visible.  "Anyway,  I'm  glad  my  window  is 
not  on  this  side,"  she  muttered,  as  her  eyes 
strayed  to  the  ground  at  her  horse's  feet.  For 
yards  around,  the  buffalo  grass  had  been  trampled 
and  pawed  until  scarcely  a  spear  remained. 
"Here's  where  he  watches  me  start  out  each  morn- 
ing, then  he  follows  me  until  he's  sure  I'm  well 
away  from  the  valley,  then  he  slips  back  and 
searches  the  cabin,  and  then  takes  up  my  trail 
again.  The  miserable  sneak!"  she  cried,  angrily. 
"If  Mr.  Thompson,  and  Watts,  and  that  cow- 
boy preacher  knew  what  I  knew  about  him,  they 
wouldn't  seem  so  impressed  with  him.  Anyway, " 
she  added,  defiantly,  "Mr.  Bethune  and  Lord 
Clendenning  know  him  for  what  he  is — and  so  do 
I." 

It  was  in  a  very  wrathful  mood  that  she  turned 
her  horse's  head  and  struck  into  the  timber,  being 
careful  to  avoid  Vil  Holland's  camp  by  a  wide 
margin.  Crossing  the  timbered  plateau,  she 
topped  a  low  divide  and  found  herself  at  the  head 


Clendenning  Gets  a  Ducking      165 

of  a  deep,  rocky  valley,  whose  course  she  could 
trace  for  miles  as  it  wound  in  and  out  among  the 
far  hills.  Giving  her  horse  his  head,  she  began 
the  descent  of  the  valley,  scanning  its  sides  care- 
fully as  the  animal  picked  his  way  slowly  among 
the  rock  fragments  and  patches  of  scrub  timber 
that  littered  its  floor.  She  had  proceeded  for 
perhaps  an  hour  when,  in  passing  the  mouth  of  a 
ravine  that  slanted  sharply  into  the  hills,  she 
was  startled  by  a  rattling  of  loose  stones,  and  a 
horse  and  rider  emerged  almost  directly  into  her 
path.  The  next  moment  Vil  Holland  raised  the 
Stetson  from  his  head  and  addressed  her  gravely : 
"Good  mornin'  Miss  Sinclair,  I  sure  didn't  mean 
to  come  out  on  you  sudden,  that  way,  but  Buck 
slipped  on  the  rocks  an'  we  come  mighty  near 
pilin'up." 

"It  is  about  the  first  slip  you've  made,  isn't  it?" 
Patty  answered,  acidly.  "Possibly  if  you'd  left 
your  jug  at  home  you  wouldn't  have  made  that." 

"Oh  no.  We've  slipped  before.  Fact  is,  we've 
been  into  about  every  kind  of  a  jack-pot  the  hills 
can  deal.  We  rolled  half  way  down  a  mountain 
once,  an'  barrin'  a  little  skinnin'  up,  we  come  out 
of  it  all  to  the  good.  But  it  ain't  the  jug.  Buck 
don't  drink.     It's  surprisin'  what  a  good  habited 


i66  The  Gold  Girl 

horse  he  is.  He's  a  heap  better'n  most  folks." 
The  man  spoke  gravely,  with  no  hint  of  sarcasm 
in  his  tone,  and  Patty  sniffed.  He  appeared  not 
to  notice.  "How  you  comin'  on  with  the  pros- 
pectin'?    Found  yer  dad's  claim  yet?" 

"You  ought  to  know  whether  I  have  or  not," 
she  retorted,  hotly. 

"That's  so.  If  you  had,  you  wouldn't  still  be 
huntin'  it,  would  you?" 

"No.  And  if  I  had,  I'd  have  had  a  nice  little 
race  on  my  hands  to  file  it,  wouldn't  I?" 

"Well,  I  expect  maybe  you  would.  But  that 
horse  of  yours  is  pretty  handy  on  his  feet.  Used 
to  belong  to  Bob  Smith — that's  his  brand — that 
KN  on  the  left  shoulder." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  girl,  meaningly.  "I 
understand  there  is  only  one  horse  in  the  hills  that 
could  outrun  him." 

1  'Buck  can.  I  won  ten  dollars  off  Bob  one  time. 
We  run  a  mile,  an'  Buck  won,  easy.  But  the  best 
thing  about  Buck,  he's  a  distance  horse.  He's  got 
the  wind — an'  he  don't  know  what  it  means  to 
quit.  He  could  run  all  day  if  he  had  to,  couldn't 
you,  Buck?"  The  man  stroked  the  buckskin's 
neck  affectionately  as  he  talked 

Patty's  eyes  glinted    angrily:     "The    stakes 


Clendenning  Gets  a  Ducking      167 

would  have  to  be  pretty  high  for  you  to  run 
him,  say,  fifty  miles,  wouldn't  they?" 

"  Yes.  Pretty  high, "  he  repeated,  and  changed 
the  subject  abruptly.  "Must  find  it  kind  of 
lonesome  out  here  in  the  hills,  after  livin'  in  the 
East  where  there's  lots  of  folks  around  all  the 
time." 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  answered  the  girl,  quickly. 
"Some  of  my  neighbors  are  good  enough  to  call  on 
me  once  in  a  while — when  I  am  at  home.  And 
there  is  at  least  one  that  calls  very  regularly  when  I 
am  not  at  home.  He  is  a  genius  for  detail — that 
one.  Sharp  eyes,  and  a  light  touch.  He's  some- 
thing of  an  expert  in  the  matter  of  duplicate  keys, 
too.  In  any  large  city  he  should  make  a  grand 
success — as  a  burglar.  It  is  really  too  bad  that 
he's  wasting  his  talents,  here  in  the  hills." 

"Maybe  he  figures  that  the  stakes  are  higher, 
and  the  risk  less — here  in  the  hills." 

"Of  course,"  sneered  Patty.  "And  I  must 
say  his  reasoning  does  him  credit.  If  he  should 
succeed  in  burglarizing  even  the  biggest  bank  in 
the  richest  city,  he  could  not  expect  to  carry  off 
a  gold  mine.  And,  here  in  the  hills,  instead  of 
burglar-proof  devices  and  armed  policemen,  he 
has  only  an  unlocked  cabin,  and  a  woman  to  con- 


1 68  The  Gold  Girl 

tend  with.  Yes,  the  risk  is  far  less  here  in  the  hills. 
His  location  speaks  well  for  his  reasoning — if  not 
for  his  courage." 

"I  suppose  he  figures  that  plenty  of  brutes 
have  got  courage,  but  only  humans  can  reason," 
answered  the  man,  blandly.  "But,  ridin'  out  in 
the  hills  this  way — that  must  be  a  lonesome  job." 

"Not  at  all,"  she  answered,  in  a  voice  that 
masked  the  anger  against  the  man  who  sat  calmly 
baiting  her.  "In  fact,  I  never  ride  alone.  I  have 
an  unseen  escort,  who  accompanies  me  wherever 
I  go.  ■  My  guardian  devil  of  the  hills '  I  call  him, 
and  even  when  I'm  at  home  I  know  that  he  is 
watching  from  his  notch  in  the  rim  of  the  hills." 

1 '  Guardian  devil, ' '  the  man  repeated.  ■ '  That's 
pretty  good."  He  did  not  smile,  in  fact,  Patty 
recalled,  as  she  sat  looking  squarely  into  his  eyes, 
that  she  had  never  seen  him  smile — had  never  seen 
him  express  any  emotion.  Without  a  trace  of 
anger  in  tone  or  expression  he  had  ordered  the 
grasping  hotel-keeper  about — and  had  been  obeyed 
to  the  letter.  And  without  the  slightest  evidence 
of  annoyance  or  displeasure  he  had  listened,  upon 
several  occasions  to  her  own  sarcastic  outbursts 
against  him.  Here  was  a  man  as  devoid  of  emotion 
as  a  fish,  or  one  whose  complete  self-mastery  was 


Clendenning  Gets  a  Ducking      169 

astounding.  ' '  Pretty  good, ' '  he  repeated.  ' '  And 
does  he  know  that  you  call  him  your  l  guardian 
devil?' " 

"Yes,  I  think  he  does — now,"  she  answered, 
dryly.  "  By  the  way,  Mr.  Holland,  you  do  a  good 
deal  of  riding  about  the  hills,  yourself. " 

"Yeh,  prospectors  are  apt  to.  Then,  there's 
other  little  matters  of  interest  here,  too." 

"Such  as  horse- thieving?"  suggested  the  girl. 
"I  heard  you  were  paid  to  run  down  a  gang  of 
horse-thieves.  I  was  wondering  when  you  found 
time  to  earn  your  money." 

"Yeh,  there's  some  hair  artists  loose  in  the  hills, 
an*  some  of  the  outfits  kind  of  wanted  me  to  keep 
an  eye  out  for  'em." 

An  old  saw  flashed  into  the  girl's  mind,  and  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  drew  into  a  sarcastic  smile. 

"'Settin'  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief,'  is  what 
you're  thinkin'  .  We  ain't  so  well  acquainted  yet 
as  what  we  will  be — when  you  get  your  eye  teeth 
cut." 

"I  suppose  our  real  acquaintance  will  begin 
when  the  game  we  are  playing  comes  to  a  show- 
down?" she  sneered.  "But  let  me  tell  you  this, 
if  I  win,  our  acquaintance  will  end,  right  where 
you  think  it  will  begin!" 


i7o  The  Gold  Girl 

The  cowboy  nodded:  "That's  fair  an'  square. 
An'  if  I  win — you'll  have  to  be  satisfied  with  what 
you  get.  Good-day,  I've  fooled  away  time  enough 
already."  And,  with  a  word  to  his  horse,  Vil 
Holland  disappeared  up  the  valley  in  the  direction 
from  which  the  girl  had  come. 

When  her  anger  had  cooled  sufficiently,  Patty 
smiled,  a  rather  grim,  tight-lipped  little  smile. 
"If  he  wins  I'll  have  to  be  satisfied  with  what  I 
get, "  she  muttered.  "At  least,  he's  candid  about 
it.  I  think,  now,  Mr.  Vil  Holland  and  I  under- 
stand each  other  perfectly." 

Late  in  the  afternoon  she  emerged  from  the 
mouth  of  her  valley  and,  crossing  a  familiar  tongue 
of  bench,  found  herself  upon  the  trail  near  the 
point  of  its  intersection  with  Monte' s  Creek. 
Turning  up'  the  creek,  she  stopped  for  a  few 
minutes'  chat  with  Ma  Watts. 

"  Law  sakes!  Climb  right  down  an'  set  a  while. 
I  wus  sayin'  to  Watts  las'  night  how  we-all  hain't 
see  nawthin*  of  yo'  fer  hit's  goin*  on  a  couple  of 
weeks  'cept  yo'  hirein*  the  team,  an'  not  stoppin* 
in  to  speak  of,  comin'  er  goin\  How  be  yo'  ?  An' 
I  'spect  yo'  hain't  found  yer  pa's  claim  yet.  I 
saved  yo*  up  a  dozen  of  aigs.  Hed  to  mighty  near 
fight  off  that  there  Lord  Clendennin'  he  wanted 


Clendenning  Gets  a  Ducking      171 

'em  so  bad.  But  I  done  tol'  him  yo'  wus  promised 
'em,  an'  yo'd  git  'em  not  nary  nother.  So  there 
they  be,  honey,  all  packed  in  a  pail  with  hay  so's 
they  won't  break.  No  sir,  I  tol'  him  how  he 
couldn't  hev'  'em  if  he  wus  two  lords.  An'  all  the 
time  we  wus  a-augerin',  Mr.  Bethune  an'  Microby 
Dandeline  sot  out  yonder  a-talkin'  an'  laughin', 
friendly  as  yo'  please."  Ma  Watts  paused  for 
breath  and  her  eye  fell  upon  her  spouse,  who 
stood  meekly  beside  the  kitchen  door.  "Watts, 
where's  yer  manners?  Cain't  yo'  say  'howdy'  to 
Mr.  Sinclair's  darter — an'  her  a-payin'  yo'  good 
money  fer  rent  an'  fer  team  hire.  Yo'  ort  to  be 
'shamed,  standin'  gawpin'  like  a  mud  turkle. 
Folks  'ud  think  yo'  hain't  got  good  sense." 

"I  aimed  to  say  'howdy'  first  chanct  I  got." 
He  shoved  a  chair  toward  the  girl.  "  Set  down  an ' 
take  hit  easy  a  spell." 

"Where  is  Microby?"  she  asked,  refusing  the 
proffered  seat  with  a  smile,  and  leaning  lightly 
against  her  saddle. 

"Land  sakes,  I  don't  know!  She's  git  tin'  that 
no  'count,  she  goes  pokin'  off  somewhere's  in  the 
hills  on  Gee  Dot.  Says  she's  a-prospectin' — 
like  they  all  says  when  they're  too  lazy  to  do 
reg'lar  work." 


172  The  Gold  Girl 

"My  father  was  a  prospector,"  answered  the 
girl,  quickly,  "  and  there  wasn't  a  lazy  bone  in  his 
body.  And  I'm  a  prospector,  and  I'm  sure  I'm 
not  lazy.' * 

"  Law,  there  I  went  an'  done  hit ! "  exclaimed  Ma 
Watts,  contritely.  "I  didn't  mean  no  real  honest- 
to-Gawd,  reg'lar  prospectors  like  yo'  pa  wus,  an* 
yo',  an'  Mr.  Bethune.  But  there's  that  Vil  Hol- 
land, he's  a  cowpuncher,  when  he  works,  and  a 
prospector  when  he  don't.  An'  there's  Lord 
Clendennin',  he's  a  prospector  all  the  time,  'cause 
he  don't  never  work — an'  that 's  the  way  hit  goes. 
An'  Microby  Dandeline's  a-gittin'  as  trirlin'  as 
the  rest.  Mr.  Bethune,  he  tellin'  her  how  she'd 
git  rich  ef  she  could  find  a  gol'  mind,  an'  how  she 
could  buy  her  some  fine  clos'  like  yourn,  an'  go 
to  the  city  to  live  like  the  folks  in  the  pitchers. 
Mr.  Bethune,  he's  done  found  minds.  He's  rich. 
An'  he's  got  manners,  too.  Watts,  he's  alius 
makin'  light  of  manners — says  they  don't  'mount 
to  nawthin'.  But  thet's  'cause  he  hain't  quality. 
Quality's  got  'em,  an'  they're  nice  to  hev." 

"Gre't  sight  o'  quality — him,"  growled  Watts. 
"He's  part  Injun." 

"Hit  don't  make  no  difl'ence  what  he's  part!" 
defended  the  woman.     "He's  rich,  an'  he's  purty 


Clendenning  Gets  a  Ducking      173 

lookin',  an'  he's  got  manners  like  I  done  tol'  yo\ 
Ef  I  wus  you  I'd  marry  up  with  him,  an " 

"Why,  Mrs.  Watts!  What  do  you  mean?" 
exclaimed  the  girl  flushing  with  annoyance. 

"Jest  what  I  be'n  aimin'  to  tell  yo'  fer  hit's 
goin'  on  quite  a  spell.  Yo'n  him  'ud  step  hit  off 
right  pert.  Yo'  pretty,  an'  yo'  rich,  er  yo'  will 
be  when  yo'  find  yo'  pa's  mind,  an'  yo'  manners 
is  most  as  good  as  his'n." 

The  humor  of  the  mountain  woman's  serious 
effort  at  match-making  struck  Patty,  and  she 
interrupted  with  a  laugh:  "There  are  several 
objections  to  that  arrangement, "  she  hastened  to 
say.  "In  the  first  place  Mr.  Bethune  has  never 
asked  me  to  marry  him.  He  may  have  serious 
objections,  and  as  for  me,  I'm  not  ready  to  even 
think  of  marrying." 

"Don't  take  long  to  git  ready,  onct  yo'  git  in 
the  notion.  An'  I  bet  Mr.  Bethune  hain't  a- 
buzzin'  'round  up  an'  down  this  yere  crick  fer 
nawthin'.  Law  sakes,  child,  when  I  tuk  a  notion 
to  take  Watts,  come  a  supper  time  I  wusn't  no 
more  a  mind  to  git  married  than  yo'  be,  an',  by 
cracky !  come  moonrise  me  an'  Watts  had  forked 
one  o'  pa's  mewels  with  nothin'  on  but  a  rope 
halter,  an'  wus  headin'  down  the  branch  with  pa 


174  The  Gold  Girl 

an'  my  brother  Lafe  a-cuttin'  through  the  lau'ls 
with  their  rifle-guns  fer  to  head  us  off." 

"Yo'  didn't  take  me  fer  looks  ner  manners, 
neither, "  reminded  Watts. 

"Law,  I'd  a  be'n  single  yet,  ef  I  hed.  No  sir, 
I  tuk  yo'  to  save  a  sight  o*  killin'  that's  what  I 
done.  Yo'  see,  Miss,  my  pa  wus  sot  on  me  not 
marryin'  no  Watts — not  that  I  aimed  to,  'til  he 
says  I  dasn't.  But  Watts  hed  be'n  a  pesterin' 
'round  right  smart,  nights,  an'  pa  lowed  he'd 
shore  kill  him  daid  ef  he  didn't  mind  his  own  busi- 
ness— so'd  my  brothers,  they  wus  five  of  'em,  an' 
nary  one  that  wusn't  mighty  handy  with  his 
rifle-gun. 

"So  Watts,  he  quit  a-comin'  to  the  cabin,  but 
me  an'  him  made  hit  up  thet  he'd  hide  out  on 
t'other  side  o'  the  branch  an'  holler  like  a  owl,  an' 
then  I'd  slip  out  the  back  do' — an'  that's  the 
way  we  done  our  co'tin'.  My  folks  didn't  hev 
no  truck  with  the  Wattses  thet  lived  on  t'other  side 
the  mountain,  'count  of  them  killin'  two  Strunkses 
a  way  back,  the  Strunkses  bein'  my  pa's  ma's 
folks,  over  a  hawg.  Even  then  I  didn't  hev  no 
notion  o'  marryin'  Watts,  jest  done  hit  to  be 
a-doin'  like,  ontil  pa  an'  the  boys  ketched  on  to 
whut  we  wus  up  to.    After  thet,   hit   got   so't 


Clendenning  Gets  a  Ducking      175 

every  time  they  heerd  a  squinch  owl  holler,  they'd 
begin  a-shootin'  into  the  bresh  with  their  rifle 
guns.  Watts  lowed  they  was  comin'  doggone 
clust  to  him  a  time  er  two,  an'  how  he  aimed  to 
bring  along  his  own  gun  some  night,  an*  start  a 
shoo  tin'  back. 

"Law  knows  wher  it  would  ended,  whut  one 
with  another,  the  Biggses  an'  the  Strunkses,  an' 
the  Rawlins,  an'  the  Craborchards  would  hev  be'n 
drug  into  hit,  along  of  the  Wattses  an'  the  Scrog- 
ginses.  So  I  tuk  Watts,  an'  we  went  to  live  with 
his  folks,  an'  we  sent  back  the  mewel  with  Job 
Swenky,  who  they  wouldn't  nobody  kill  'cause  he 
wus  a  daftie.  An'  pa  brung  back  the  mewel 
hisself ,  come  alone,  an'  'thouten  his  rifle-gun.  He 
says  seein'  how  Watts  hed  got  me  fair  an'  squr, 
an'  we  wus  reg'lar  married,  he  reckoned  the  ol' 
grudge  wus  dead,  the  Strunkses  wasn't  no  count 
much,  nohow,  an'  we  wus  welcome  to  keep  the 
mewel  to  start  on.  So  Watts's  pa  killed  a  shoat, 
an'  brung  out  a  big  jug  o'  corn  whisky,  an*  we- 
all  et  an'  drunk  all  we  could  hold,  an'  from  then 
on  'til  whut  time  we  come  away  from  ther,  they 
wusn't  a  man,  outside  a  couple  o'  revenoos,  killed 
on  B'ar  Track. 

"So  yo'  see,"  the  woman  continued,  with  a 


176  The  Gold  Girl 

smile.  '  'Hit  don't  take  no  time  to  git  ready,  onct 
yo'  git  in  the  notion." 

"I'm  afraid  I  haven't  the  same  provocation, " 
Patty  laughed,  as  she  picked  up  her  pail  of  eggs 
and  swung  into  the  saddle.  "Good-by,  and  be 
sure  and  tell  Microby  Dandeline  to  come  up  and 
see  me.  Maybe  she'd  like  to  come  up  on  Sunday. 
I  never  ride  on  Sunday." 

"She'll  come  fast  enough, "  promised  Ma  Watts, 
and  watched  the  retreating  girl  until  a  bend  of  the 
creek  carried  her  out  of  sight. 

The  long  shadows  of  the  mountains  were  slowly 
climbing  the  opposite  wall  of  the  valley,  as  the 
girl  rode  leisurely  up  Monte's  Creek.  And  as  she 
rode,  she  smiled:  "Why  is  it  that  every  married 
woman — and  especially  the  older  ones,  thinks  it  is 
her  bounden  duty  to  pounce  upon  and  marry  off 
every  single  one?  It  is  not  one  bit  different  out 
here  in  the  heart  of  the  hills,  than  it  is  in  Middle- 
ton,  or  New  York.  And,  it  isn't  because  they're 
all  so  happy  in  their  own  marriages,  either.  Look 
at  old  Mrs.  Stratford,  who  was  bound  and  deter- 
minded  that  I  must  marry  that  Archie  Smith- 
Jones  ;  she's  been  married  four  times,  and  divorced 
three.  And  Archie  never  will  amount  to  a  row  of 
pins.     He  looks  like  a  tailor's  model,  and  acts  like 


Clendenning  Gets  a  Ducking      177 

a  Rolls-Royce.  And,  I  don't  see  any  supreme 
bliss  about  Mrs.  Watts' s  married  existence,  al- 
though she's  perfectly  satisfied,  I  guess,  poor 
thing.  I  love  the  subtle  finesse  with  which  she 
tried  to  arrange  a  match  between  me  and  Mr. 
Bethune.  '  'Ef  I  wus  yo'  I'd  marry  up  with  him ' — 
just  like  that!  Shades  of  Mrs.  Stratford  who 
spent  two  whole  months  trying  to  get  Archie  and 
me  into  the  same  canoe!  And  when  she  did,  the 
blamed  thing  tipped  over  and  ruined  the  only 
decent  summer  things  I  had,  all  because  that  fool 
Archie  thought  he  had  to  stand  up  to  fend  the 
canoe  off  the  pier.  .  .  .  At,  least,  Mr.  Bethune 
has  got  some  sense,  and  he  is  good  looking,  and  he 
seems  to  have  money,  and  there  is  a  certain  dash 
and  verve  about  him  that  one  would  hardly  expect 
to  find  here  in  the  hills — and  yet — there's  some- 
thing— it  isn't  his  Indian  blood,  I  don't  care  a  cent 
about  that — but  sometimes,  there's  something 
about  him  that  makes  me  wonder  if  he's  genuine." 
She  passed  through  the  cottonwood  grove  and 
emerged  into  the  open  only  a  few  hundred  yards 
below  the  sheep  camp.  A  moment  later  she 
halted  abruptly  and  stared  toward  the  cabin. 
Two  saddled  horses  stood  before  the  door,  reins 
hanging  loosely,  and  upon  the  edge  of  a  low  cut- 


i78  The  Gold  Girl 

bank,  just  below  the  shallow  waters  of  the  ford, 
two  men  were  struggling,  locked  in  each  other's 
embrace.  Hastily  the  girl  drew  back  into  the 
cover  of  the  grove  and  watched  with  intense 
interest  the  two  forms  that  weaved  precariously 
above  the  deep  pool  formed  by  a  sudden  bend  in 
the  creek.  The  horses  she  recognized  as  Vil 
Holland's  buckskin,  and  the  big,  blaze-faced  bay 
ridden  by  Lord  Clendenning.  In  the  gathering 
dusk  she  could  not  make  out  the  faces  of  the  two 
men,  but  by  their  heaving,  circling,  swaying  figures 
she  knew  that  mighty  muscles  were  being  strained 
to  their  utmost,  and  that  soon  one  or  the  other 
must  give  in.  A  dozen  questions  flashed  through 
the  girl's  brain.  What  were  they  doing  there? 
Why  were  they  fighting  at  the  very  door  of  her 
cabin?  And,  above  all,  what  would  be  the  out- 
come ?  Would  one  of  them  kill  the  other  ?  Would 
one  of  them  be  left  maimed  and  bleeding  for  her 
to  bind  up  and  coax  back  to  life? 

The  men  were  on  the  very  verge  of  the  cut- 
bank,  now,  and  it  seemed  inevitable  that  both 
must  go  crashing  into  the  creek.  "Serve  'em 
right  if  they  would,"  muttered  Patty,  "I'd  like 
to  give  'em  a  push."  With  the  words  on  her  lips, 
she  saw  a  blur  of  motion,  one  of  the  forms  leaped 


Clendenning  Gets  a  Ducking      179 

lightly  back,  and  the  other  poised  for  a  second, 
arms  waving  wildly  in  a  vain  effort  to  regain  his 
balance,  then  fell  suddenly  backward  and  toppled 
headlong  into  the  creek.  Patty  could  distinctly 
hear  the  mighty  splash  with  which  he  struck  the 
water,  as  the  other  advanced  to  the  edge  and 
peered  downward.  She  knew  that  this  other  was 
Vil  Holland,  and  a  moment  later  he  turned  away 
and  catching  up  the  reins  of  the  buckskin,  swung 
into  the  saddle,  splashed  through  the  ford,  and 
disappeared  into  the  scrub  timber  of  the  opposite 
side  of  the  valley. 

Patty  urged  her  horse  forward,  at  the  imminent 
risk  of  injury  to  her  pail  of  eggs.  When  she  had 
almost  reached  the  cabin,  a  grotesque,  dripping 
form  crawled  heavily  from  the  creek  bed,  gave  one 
hurried  glance  in  her  direction,  mounted  his  horse, 
and  disappeared  in  a  thunder  of  galloping  hoofs. 


CHAPTER  XII 


BETHUNE  TRIES  AGAIN 


For  several  days  following  the  incident  of  the 
two  struggling  horsemen,  Patty  rode,  extending 
her  quest  farther  and  farther  into  the  hills,  and 
thus  widening  the  circle  of  her  exploration.  She 
had  overhauled  her  father's  photographic  outfit 
and  found  it  contained  complete  supplies  for  the 
development  and  printing  of  his  own  pictures, 
and  having  brought  several  rolls  of  films  from  town, 
she  proceeded  to  amuse  herself  by  photographing 
the  more  striking  bits  of  scenery  she  encountered 
upon  her  daily  rides. 

It  was  mid-summer,  now,  the  sun  shone  hot  and 
brassy  from  a  cloudless  sky,  and  the  buffalo  grass 
was  beginning  to  exchange  its  fresh  greenness  for  a 
shade  of  dirty  tan.  Only  the  delicious  coolness 
of  the  short  nights  made  bearable  the  long,  hot, 
monotonous  days  during  which  the  girl  stuck 
doggedly  to  her  purpose.     Upon  these  rides  she 

180 


Bethune  Tries  Again  181 

met  no  one.  It  was  as  if  human  beings  had  en- 
tirely forsaken  the  world  and  left  it  to  the  prairie 
dogs,  the  coyotes,  and  the  lazily  coiled  rattle- 
snakes that  lay  basking  upon  the  rocks  in  the  hot 
glare  of  the  sun.  Even  the  occasional  bunches  of 
range  cattle  did  not  eye  her  with  their  accustomed 
interest,  but  lay  in  straggling  groups  close  beside 
the  cold  waters  of  tiny  streams. 

And  it  was  upon  one  of  these  hot  days,  long  past 
the  noon  hour,  that  Patty  dismounted  in  a  narrow 
valley  near  the  head  of  a  cold  mountain  stream 
and,  affixing  the  hobbles  to  her  horse's  legs,  threw 
off  the  saddle  and  bridle,  and  spread  the  sweat- 
dampened  blanket  to  dry  in  the  sun.  Freed  of 
his  accouterments,  the  horse  shook  himself,  shuffled 
to  the  stream,  and  burying  his  muzzle  to  the  eyes, 
sucked  up  great  gulps  of  the  cold  water,  and  play- 
fully thrashing  his  head,  sent  volleys  of  silver  drops 
flying  from  side  to  side,  as  he  churned  the  tiny 
pool  into  a  veritable  mud  wallow.  Tiring  of  that, 
he  rolled  luxuriously,  the  crisping  buffalo  grass 
scratching  the  irking  saddle-feel  from  his  back  and 
sides:  and  as  the  girl  spread  her  luncheon  upon  a 
clean  white  napkin  in  the  shade  of  a  stunted  cotton- 
wood,  fell  to  grazing  contentedly. 

As  Patty  chipped  at  the  shell  of  a  hard-boiled 


i82  The  Gold  Girl 

egg  she  glanced  toward  the  horse,  which  had 
stopped  grazing  and  stood  facing  down  stream 
with  ears  nervously  alert.  A  few  moments  later 
the  soft  rattle  of  bit-chains  and  the  low  shuffling 
of  hoofs  told  her  that  a  rider  was  approaching  at  a 
walk.  "Probably  my  guardian  devil,  ostensibly 
paying  strict  attention  to  his  own  business  of 
prospecting,  or  trying  to  strike  the  trail  of  the  horse- 
thieves,  but  in  reality  hot  on  the  trail  of  little  me. 
I  just  wish  I  could  find  the  mine.  He'll  have  to 
stop  and  drive  his  stakes  and  fix  his  notice,  and  if 
his  old  buckskin  is  as  good  as  he  thinks  he  is,  hell 
just  about  overtake  me  at  Thompson's.  And  then 
on  a  fresh  horse — I  just  want  one  good  look  into  his 
face  when  I  pass  him,  that's  all!" 

The  horseman  came  suddenly  into  view  a  few 
yards  distant,  and  the  girl  looked  up  into  the  black 
eyes  of  Monk  Bethune. 

1 '  Well,  well,  my  dear  Miss  Sinclair ! ' '  The  quar- 
ter-breed's tone  was  one  of  glad  surprise,  as  he  dis- 
mounted and  advanced,  hat  in  hand.  "This  is 
indeed  an  unexpected  pleasure.  La,  la,  la,  the 
luck  of  it!  Shall  we  say,  the  romance?  Hot  and 
saddle-weary  from  a  long  ride,  to  come  suddenly 
upon  the  fairest  of  ladies,  at  luncheon  alone  in  the 
most  charming  of  little  valleys.     It  is  a  situation 


Bethune  Tries  Again  183 

to  be  dreamed  of.  And,  am  I  not  to  be  asked  to 
share  your  repast?" 

Patty  laughed.  The  light  whimsicality  of  the 
man's  mood  amused  her:  "Yes,  you  may  consider 
yourself  invited." 

"And  be  assured  that  I  accept,  that  is,  upon 
condition  that  I  be  allowed  to  contribute  my  just 
share  toward  the  feast."  As  he  talked,  Bethune 
fumbled  at  his  pack-strings,  and  brought  forth  a 
small  canvas  bag,  from  which  he  drew  sandwiches 
of  fried  trout  and  bacon  thrust  between  two  slabs 
of  doubtful  looking  baking-powder  bread.  "No 
dainty  lunch  prepared  by  woman's  hand,"  he 
apologized,  "but  we  of  the  hills,  no  matter  how 
exotic  or  aesthetic  our  tastes  may  be,  must  of  stern 
necessity  descend  to  the  common  level  of  cowboys 
and  offscourings  in  the  matter  of  our  eating.  See, 
beside  your  own  palatable  food,  this  rough  fare  of 
mine  presents  an  appearance  unappetizing  almost 
to  repugnance." 

"At  least,  it  looks  eminently  satisfying,"  said 
Patty,  eyeing  the  thick  sandwiches. 

"Satisfying,  I  grant  you.  Satisfying  to  the 
beast  that  is  in  man,  in  that  it  stays  the  pangs  of 
hunger.  So  is  the  blood-dripping  carcass  of  the 
fresh-killed  calf  satisfying  to  the  wolf,  and  carrion 


i84  The  Gold  Girl 

satisfying  to  the  buzzard.  But,  not  at  all  satisfy- 
ing to  the  unbestial  ego — to  the  thing  that  makes 
man,  man." 

"You  should  have  been  a  poet,"  smiled  the  girl. 
"But  come,  even  poets  must  eat." 

1 '  God  help  the  man  who  has  no  poetry  in  his  soul 
— no  imagination!"  exclaimed  Bethune,  a  trifle 
sententiously,  thought  the  girl,  as  she  resumed  the 
chipping  of  her  egg.  "Imagination,"  the  word 
hovered  illusively  in  her  brain — she  had  applied 
that  word  only  recently  to  someone — oh,  yes,  the 
man  whose  habit  it  was  to  search  her  cabin.  She 
smiled  ever  so  slightly  as  she  glanced  side  wise  at 
Bethune  who  was  nibbling  at  one  of  his  own  sand- 
wiches. 

"Please  try  one  of  mine,"  she  urged,  "and  there 
are  some  pickles,  and  an  olive  or  two.  I  have 
loads  of  them  at  home,  and  really  I  believe  I 
should  like  that  other  sandwich  of  yours.  I 
haven't  tasted  fish  for  ages." 

1 ' Take  it  and  welcome, "  smiled  the  man.  ' '  But 
do  not  deny  yourself  the  pleasure  of  eating  all  the 
fish  you  want.  Why,  with  a  bent  pin,  a  bit  of 
thread,  and  housefly,  you  can  catch  yourself  a 
mess  of  trout  any  morning  without  venturing  a 
hundred  yards   from   your   own   door.     Monte's 


Bethune  Tries  Again  185 

Creek  is  alive  with  them,  and  taken  fresh  from  the 
water  and  fried  to  a  crisp  in  butter,  they  make  a 
breakfast  fit  for  a  king,  or  in  the  present  instance, 
I  should  have  said,  a  queen." 

"Tell  me,"  asked  Patty,  abruptly.  "Has  Vil 
Holland  imagination?" 

"Imagination!  My  dear  lady,  Vil  Holland  is 
the  veriest  clod !  Too  lazy  to  do  the  honest  work 
for  which  he  is  fitted,  he  roams  the  hills  under  pre- 
tense of  prospecting." 

"But,  how  does  he  make  a  living?" 

B ethune  shrugged.  * '  Who  can  tell  ?  I  know  for 
a  certainty  that  he  has  never  made  a  cent  out  of 
his  alleged  prospecting.  It  is  true  he  rides  the 
round-up  for  a  couple  of  months  in  the  spring  and 
fall,  but  four  months'  work  at  forty  dollars  a  month 
will  hardly  suffice  for  a  man's  yearly  needs."  He 
unconsciously  lowered  his  voice,  and  continued: 
"Several  ranchers  have  complained  of  losing  horses 
and  only  a  few  days  ago,  up  near  the  line,  my  good 
friend  Corporal  Downey,  of  the  Mounted,  told  me 
that  a  number  of  American  horses,  with  brands 
skillfully  doctored,  had  been  regularly  making 
their  appearance  in  Canada.  It  is  an  ugly  sus- 
picion, and  I  am  making  no  open  accusation,  but — 
one  may  wonder." 


i86  The  Gold  Girl 

The  man  finished  his  sandwich,  dipped  his 
fingers  into  the  creek,  wiped  them  upon  his 
handkerchief,  and  proceeded  to  roll  a  cigarette. 
4 '  Speaking  of  Vil  Holland,  why  did  you  ask  whether 
he  had — imagination?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  girl,  lightly. 
MI  just  wondered." 

Bethune  regarded  her  steadily.  ' '  Has  he  been, 
— er,  interfering  in  any  way  with  your  attempt  to 
locate  your  father's  strike?" 

"Hardly  interfering,  I  should  say." 

"You  believe  he  still  follows  you?" 

"Yes." 

' '  You  do  not  fear  him  ? ' ' 

"No." 

1 '  That  is  because  you  do  not  know  him !  I  tell 
you  he  is  a  dangerous  man!"  Bethune  puffed 
shortly  at  his  cigarette,  hurled  it  from  him,  and 
faced  the  girl  with  glowing  eyes:  "Ah,  Miss  Sin- 
clair, why  don't  you  end  this  uncertainty?  Why 
do  you  continue  every  day  to  jeopardize  your  in- 
terests— yes,  your  very  life ?" 

"Do  you  mean,"  interrupted  the  girl,  "why 
don't  I  form  a  partnership  with  you?" 

"A  partnership!  Ah,  no,  not  a — and,  yet — yes, 
a  partnership.    A  partnership  of  life,  and  love,  and 


Bethune  Tries  Again  187 

happiness!"  The  man  moved  close,  and  the 
black  eyes  seemed,  in  the  intensity  of  their  gaze 
to  devour  her  very  soul.  "There  I  have  said  it — 
the  thing  I  have  been  wanting  to  say,  yet  have 
feared  to  say."  Patty's  lips  moved,  as  if  to  speak, 
but  the  man  forestalled  the  words  with  a  gesture. 
"Before  you  answer,  let  me  tell  you  how,  since  you 
first  came  into  the  hills,  I  have  lived  in  the  shadow 
of  a  mighty  fear — I,  who  have  lived  my  life  among 
men,  and  have  never  known  the  meaning  of  fear, 
have  been  harassed  by  a  multitude  of  fears.  From 
the  moment  of  our  first  meeting  I  have  loved  you. 
And,  by  all  the  saints,  I  swear  you  are  the  only 
woman  I  have  ever  loved !  And,  yet,  I  feared  to 
tell  you  of  that  love.  Twice  the  words  have 
trembled  on  my  tongue,  and  remained  unspoken, 
because  I  feared  that  you  might  spurn  me.  Then 
in  my  heart  rose  another  fear,  and  I  cursed  myself 
for  a  craven.  I  feared  that  chance  might  favor  you 
in  locating  your  father's  strike,  and  then  people 
would  say,  'he  loves  her  for  her  wealth.'  I  even 
thought  that  you,  yourself,  might  doubt — might 
ask  yourself  why  he  waited  until  I  became  rich 
before  he  told  me  of  his  love?  But,  believe  me, 
my  dear  lady,  for  your  wealth,  I  care  not  the  snap 
of  my  ringers — so ! "    He  snapped  his  fingers  loudly 


i88  The  Gold  Girl 

and  continued:  "But  say  the  word,  and  we  will 
go  far  from  the  hill  country,  and  leave  your 
father's  secret  to  the  guardianship  of  his  beloved 
mountains.  For  I  am  rich.  I  own  mines,  mines, 
mines !    What  is  one  mine  more  or  less  to  me?" 

Patty  Sinclair  felt  herself  drifting  under  the  spell 
of  his  compelling  ardor.  "Why  not?"  she  asked 
herself.  "Why  not  marry  this  man  and  give  up 
the  hopeless  struggle?"  She  thought  of  her  de- 
pleted bank  account.  At  best,  she  could  not  hope 
to  hold  out  much  longer.  Bethune  had  taken  her 
hand  as  he  talked,  and  she  had  not  withdrawn  it 
from  his  palm.  Swiftly  he  bent  his  head  and 
pressed  the  brown  hand  passionately  to  his  lips. 
She  felt  his  grip  tighten  as  the  burning  kisses  cov- 
ered her  hand — her  wrist.  She  drew  the  hand 
away. 

"But,  I  do  not  want  to  leave  the  hill  country," 
she  said,  quite  calmly.  "I  shall  never  leave  it 
until  I  have  vindicated  my  father's  course  in  the 
eyes  of  the  people  back  home — the  men  who 
scoffed  at  him,  and  called  him  a  ne'er-do-well,  and 
a  dreamer — who  refused  to  back  his  judgment  with 
their  miserable  dollars — who  killed  him  with  their 
cruelty,  and  their  doubt!" 

"I  hoped  you  would  say  that!"  exclaimed  Be- 


Bethune  Tries  Again  189 

thune,  his  eyes  alight  with  approval.  ' '  I  knew  you 
would  say  it !  The  daughter  of  your  father  could 
not  do  otherwise.  I  knew  him  well,  and  loved 
him  as  a  son  should  love.  And  I,  too,  would  see  his 
judgment  vindicated  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  world. 
Listen,  together  we  will  remain,  and  together  we 
will  locate  the  lost  strike,  if  it  takes  every  cent  I 
own."  The  man's  voice  gripped  in  its  intensity, 
and  Patty's  eyes  returned  from  the  distance  where 
the  summer  haze  bathed  far  mountain  tops  in  soft 
purple,  and  looked  into  the  eyes  of  velvet  black. 

"But,  why  should  you  want  to  marry  me?"  she 
inquired,  a  puzzled  little  frown  wrinkling  her 
forehead.  "You  hardly  know  me.  You  have  not 
always  lived  in  the  hills.  You  have  met  many 
women." 

"A  man  meets  many  women.  He  marries  but 
one.  You  ask  me  why  I  want  to  marry  you.  I 
cannot  tell  you  why.  Many  times  since  we  first 
met  I  have  asked  myself  why.  I,  who  have  openly 
scoffed  at  the  yoke,  and  boasted  proudly  of  my 
freedom.  I  do  not  know  why,  unless  it  is  that  to 
me  you  are  the  embodiment  of  all  womanhood — 
of  all  that  is  desirable  and  worth  while,  or  maybe 
the  reason  is  in  the  fact  that  while  I  am  with  you 
I  am  supremely  happy,  and  while  I  am  absent 


190  The  Gold  Girl 

from  you  I  am  restless  and  unhappy — a  prey  to  my 
fears.  I  suppose  it  all  sums  up  in  the  reason — 
world-old,  but  ever  new — because  I  love  you." 
The  man  was  upon  his  feet,  now,  bending  toward 
her  with  arms  outstretched.  For  just  an  instant 
Patty  hesitated,  then  shook  her  head. 

"No!"  she  cried  and  struggling  to  her  feet, 
faced  him  across  the  remains  of  the  luncheon. 
"No,  it  would  not  be  playing  the  game.  I  have 
my  work  to  do,  and  I'll  do  it  alone.  It  would  be 
like  quitting — like  calling  for  help  before  I  am 
beaten.  This  is  my  work — not  yours,  this  vindica- 
tion of  my  father!" 

"But  think,"  interrupted  Bethune,  "you  will 
not  let  such  Quixotic  ideals  stand  between  us  and 
happiness !  You  have  your  right  to  happiness,  and 
so  have  I,  and  in  the  end  'twill  be  the  same,  your 
father's  name  will  be  cleared  of  any  suspicion  of 
unworthiness." 

"It  is  my  work,"  Patty  repeated,  stubbornly, 
"and  besides,  I  do  not  think  I  love  you.  I  do  not 
know " 

"Ah,  but  you  will  love  me!"  cried  Bethune. 
"Such  love  as  mine  will  not  be  denied!"  The 
black  eyes  glowed,  and  he  took  a  step  toward  her, 
but  the  girl  drew  away. 


Bethune  Tries  Again  191 

c '  Not  now — not  yet !  Stop ! "  At  the  command 
Bethune  recoiled  slightly,  and  the  arms  that  had 
been  about  to  encircle  the  girl,  fell  slowly  to  his 
sides.  Patty  had  suddenly  drawn  herself  erect  and 
looked  him  eye  for  eye:  and  as  she  looked,  from 
behind  the  soft  glow  of  the  velvet  eyes,  leaped  a 
wolfish  gleam — a  glint  of  baffled  rage,  a  flash  of 
hate.  In  a  moment  it  was  gone  and  the  man's  lips 
smiled. 

" Pardon,"  he  said,  "for  the  moment  I  forgot  I 
have  not  the  right."  The  voice  had  lost  its  intense 
timbre,  and  sounded  dull,  as  if  held  under  control 
only  by  a  mighty  effort  of  will.  And  in  that  mo- 
ment a  strange  fear  of  him  took  possession  of  the 
girl,  so  that  her  own  voice  surprised  her  with  its 
calm. 

"I  must  be  going,  now." 

Bethune  bowed.  "I  will  saddle  your  horse, 
while  you  clear  up  the  table."  He  nodded  toward 
the  napkin  spread  upon  the  grass  with  the  remains 
of  the  luncheon  upon  it.  ' '  My  way  takes  me  with- 
in a  short  distance  of  your  cabin;  may  I  ride  with 
you? "  he  asked  a  few  moments  later,  as  he  led  her 
horse,  bridled  and  saddled,  to  his  own. 

"Why  certainly.  I  should  be  glad  to  have  you. 
And  we  can  talk." 


192  The  Gold  Girl 

"Of  love?" 

The  girl  laughed:     "No,  not  of  love.     Surely 
there  are  other  things " 


"Yes,  for  instance,  I  may  again  warn  you  that 
you  are  in  danger." 

"Danger?"  she  glanced  up  quickly. 

1 '  From  Vil  Holland. ' '  They  had  mounted,  and 
turned  their  horses  toward  a  long  divide. 

"Oh,  yes,  from  Vil  Holland,"  she  repeated  slow- 
ly, as  she  drew  in  beside  him.  ' '  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten Vil  Holland." 

"I  wish  to  God  I  could  forget  him,"  retorted  the 
man,  viciously.  "But,  as  long  as  you  remain  un- 
protected in  these  hills  I  shall  never  for  one  mo- 
ment forget  him.  Your  secret  is  not  safe.  Your 
person  is  not  safe.  He  dogs  your  footsteps.  He 
visits  your  cabin  during  your  absence.  He  is  bad 
— bod!  And  here  I  must  tell  you  of  an  incident — 
or  rather  explain  an  incident,  the  unfortunate  con- 
clusion of  which  you  saw  with  your  own  eyes. 
Poor  Clen!  He  is  beside  himself  with  mortifica- 
tion at  the  sorry  spectacle  he  presented  when  you 
rode  up  and  saw  him  crawl  dripping  from  the 
creek. 

"I  was  away  to  the  northward,  on  important 
business,  and  knowing  that  it  had  become  my  cus- 


Bethune  Tries  Again  193 

torn  to  ride  over  occasionally  to  see  how  you  fared, 
he  decided  to  do  the  same  during  my  absence. 
Arriving  at  the  cabin,  he  was  surprised  to  see  Vil 
Holland's  horse  before  the  door.  He  rode  boldly 
up,  dismounted,  and  caught  the  scoundrel  in  the 
act  of  searching  among  your  effects.  The  sight, 
together  with  the  memory  of  the  cut  pack  sack, 
enraged  him  to  such  an  extent  that,  despite  the  fact 
that  the  other  was  armed,  he  attacked  him  with 
his  fists.  In  the  fighting  that  ensued,  Holland, 
being  much  the  younger  and  more  agile,  succeeded 
in  pitching  Clen  over  the  edge  of  the  bank  into  the 
creek.  Whereupon,  he  leaped  into  the  saddle  and 
vanished. 

"When  Clen  finally  succeeded  in  reaching  the 
bank  and  drawing  himself  over  the  top,  he  was 
horrified  to  see  you  approaching.  Above  all  things 
Clen  is  a  gentleman,  and  rather  than  appear  before 
you  in  his  bedraggled  condition,  he  fled.  Upon 
my  return  he  insisted  that  I  see  you  and  explain  the 
awkward  situation  to  you  in  person.  I  beg  of  you 
never  to  refer  to  the  incident  in  Clen's  presence, 
especially  not  in  levity,  for  he  has,  more  strongly 
than  anyone  I  ever  knew,  the  Englishman's  horror 
of  appearing  ridiculous." 

Patty  smiled:     "It  was  too  funny  for  words. 


194  The  Gold  Girl 

The  way  he  gave  one  horrified  glance  in  my  direc- 
tion and  then  scrambled  into  his  saddle  and  dashed 
away,  with  the  water  flowing  from  him  in  rivulets. 
But  of  course,  I  shall  never  mention  it  to  Lord 
Clendenning,  and  I  wish  you  would  thank  him  for 
his  valiant  championship  of  my  cause." 

Bethune  shot  her  a  swift  sidewise  glance.  Was 
there  just  a  trace  of  mockery  in  the  tone?  If  so, 
her  expression  masked  it  perfectly. 

They  rode  in  silence  for  a  time,  following  down 
the  course  of  a  broad  valley,  and  presently  came 
out  onto  the  trail.  A  rider  approached  them  at  a 
walk,  the  low-hung  white  dust  cloud  in  his  wake 
marking  the  course  of  the  long,  hot  trail.  Bethune 
scrutinized  the  man  intently.  "Jack  Pierce,"  he 
announced.  "He  runs  a  little  yak  outfit,  a  few 
head  of  horses,  and  some  cattle  over  on  Big  Por- 
cupine." A  moment  later  Bethune  drew  up  and 
greeted  the  rider  with  a  great  show  of  cordiality. 
"Hello,  Pierce,  old  hand!  How's  everything  over 
on  Porcupine?" 

The  rancher  returned  the  greeting  with  a  curt 
nod,  and  a  level  stare:  "Things  on  Porky 's  all 
right,  I  guess — so  far." 

"I  hear  old  man  Samuelson's  sick?" 

"Yes." 


Bethune  Tries  Again  195 

"How's  he  getting  on?" 

"Ain't  heard.  So  long."  He  touched  his  horse 
with  a  quirt  and  the  animal  continued  down  the 
trail  at  a  brisk  trot. 

"Surly  devil,  "  growled  Bethune,  as  he  gazed  for 
a  moment  at  the  retreating  horseman,  and  this 
time  Patty  was  sure  she  detected  the  snake-like 
gleam  in  the  black  eyes.  He  dug  his  horse  vicious- 
ly with  his  spurs  and  jerked  him  in,  dancing  and 
fighting  the  bit.  He  laughed,  shortly.  "These 
little  ranchers — bah!" 

"Mr.  Christie  rode  over  to  see  Mr.  Samuelson 
the  other  day.     I  met  him  at  Thompson's." 

"Oh,  so  you  know  the  soul-puncher,  do  you? 
Makes  a  big  play  with  his  yellow  chaps  and  six-gun- 
Suppose  he  had  to  be  there  to  see  that  old  Samuel- 
son  gets  a  ring-side  seat  if  he  happens  to  cash  in." 

"He  said  he  was  going  over  to  see  if  there  was 
anything  he  could  do,"  answered  the  girl,  ignoring 
the  venom  of  the  man's  words. 

"Pretty  slick  graft — preaching.  Educated  for 
it  myself.  Old  Samuelson 's  rich.  Christie  goes 
over  and  pulls  a  long  face,  and  sends  up  a  hatful  of 
prayers,  and  if  he  gets  well  Samuelson  will  hand 
him  a  nice  fat  check  for  the  church.  If  he  don't, 
the  old  woman  kicks  in.     And  you  know,  and  I 


196  The  Gold  Girl 

know  how  much  of  it  the  church  ever  sees.  Did 
the  soul-puncher  have  anything  to  say  about  me?" 

"About  you?"  asked  the  girl  in  apparent  sur- 
prise.    ' '  Why  should  he  say  anything  about  you  ? ' ' 

"Because  they  all  take  a  crack  at  me!"  said  Be- 
thune  in  an  injured  tone.  "You  just  saw  how 
Pierce  answered  a  civil  question.  They  all  hate 
me  because  I  have  made  money.  They  never  made 
any,  and  they  never  will,  and  they're  jealous  of  my 
success.  They  never  lose  a  chance  to  malign  and 
injure  me  in  every  way  possible — but  111  show 
them !  Damn  them !  1 11  show  them  all ! "  They 
rode  for  a  short  distance  in  silence,  then  Bethune 
laughed.  It  was  the  ringing  boyish  laugh  that 
held  no  hint  of  bitterness  or  sneer.  "I  hope  you 
will  pardon  my  outburst.  I  have  my  moments  of 
irascibility,  for  which  I  am  heartily  ashamed. 
But — poof!  Like  a  summer  cloud,  they  are  gone 
as  quickly  as  they  come.  Why  should  I  care  what 
they  say  of  me.  They  betray  their  own  mean- 
ness of  soul  in  their  envy  of  my  success.  We  part 
here  for  the  time.  I  must  ride  over  onto  the  east 
slope — a  little  matter  of  some  horses."  Again  he 
laughed:  "In  a  few  days  I  shall  return — I  give 
you  fair  warning — return  to  win  your  love.  And 
I  will  win — I  am  Monk  Bethune — I  always  win!" 


Bethune  Tries  Again  197 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  the  man  drove  his 
spurs  into  his  horse's  sides  and,  swerving  abruptly 
from  the  trail,  disappeared  down  a  narrow  rock 
chasm  that  led  directly  into  the  heart  of  the  hills. 


CHAPTER    XIII 


PATTY   DRAWS   A   MAP 


That  evening  after  supper,  Patty  sat  upon  her 
doorstep  and  watched  the  slowly  fading  opalescent 
glow  in  which  the  daylight  surrendered  to  en- 
croaching darkness.  ' '  How  wonderful  it  all  is,  and 
how  beautiful ! ' '  she  breathed.  ' '  The  indomitable 
ruggedness  of  the  hills — rough  and  forbidding,  but 
never  ugly.  Always  beckoning,  always  challeng- 
ing, yet  always  repulsing.  Guarding  their  secrets 
well.  Their  rock  walls  and  mighty  precipices 
frowning  displeasure  at  the  presumptuous  med- 
dling of  the  intruder,  and  their  valleys  gaping  in 
sardonic  grins  at  the  puny  attempts  to  wrest  their 
secret  from  them.  Always,  the  mountains  mock, 
even  as  they  stimulate  to  greater  effort  with  their 
wonderful  air,  and  soothe  bitter  disappointment 
with  the  soft  caress  of  twilight's  afterglow.  I  love 
it — and  yet,  how  I  hate  it  all!  I  can't  hold  out 
much  longer.     I'm  like  a  general  who  has  to  with- 

198 


Patty  Draws  a  Map  199 

draw  his  forces,  not  because  he  is  beaten,  but  be- 
cause he  has  run  short  of  ammunition.  It  is  Au- 
gust, and  by  the  end  of  September  I'll  be  done." 
She  clenched  her  fists  until  the  nails  dug  into  her 
palms.  "But  I'll  come  back,"  she  cried,  defiant- 
ly. "Ill  work — I'll  find  some  way  to  earn  some 
money,  and  I'll  come  back  year  after  year,  if  I 
have  to,  until  I  have  explored  every  single  one  of 
these  mountains  from  the  littlest  foothill  to  the  top 
of  the  highest  peak.     And  some  day,  I'll  win ! " 

"Mr.  Bethune  is  rich."  She  started.  The 
thought  flashed  upon  her  brain,  vivid  as  whispered 
words.  Involuntarily,  she  shuddered  at  the  mem- 
ory of  his  burning  eyes,  the  hot  touch  of  his  lips 
upon  her  hand — her  arm.  She  remembered  the 
short,  curt  answers  of  the  hard-eyed  Pierce.  And 
the  thinly  veiled  distrust  of  Bethune,  voiced  by  Vil 
Holland,  Thompson,  and  the  preacher  whom  he 
had  affectionately  referred  to  as  "The  Bishop  of  All 
Outdoors."  Could  it  be  possible — was  it  reason- 
able, that  these  were  all  so  mean  and  contemptible 
of  soul  that  their  words  were  actuated  by  jealousy 
of  Bethune's  success  ?  Patty  thought  not.  Some- 
how, the  characters  did  not  fit  the  role.  ' '  If  he'd 
have  explained  their  dislike  upon  the  grounds  of 
his  Indian  blood,  it  might  have  carried  the  ring  of 


200  The  Gold  Girl 

truth — at  least,  it  would  have  been  reasonable. 
But,  jealousy — as  Mr.  Vil  Holland  would  say,  'I 
don't  grab  it.'" 

She  recalled  the  wolfish  gleam  that  flashed  into 
Bethune's  eyes,  and  the  malicious  hatred  expressed 
in  his  insinuations  and  accusations  against  these 
men.  Could  it  be  possible  that  her  distrust  of  Vil 
Holland  was  unfounded?  But  no,  there  was  the 
repeated  searching  of  her  cabin — and  had  not  Lord 
Clendenning  caught  him  in  the  act?  There  was 
the  trampled  grass  of  the  notch  in  the  hills  from 
which  he  was  accustomed  to  spy  upon  her.  And 
the  cut  pack  sack — somehow,  she  was  not  so  sure 
about  that  cut  pack  sack.  But,  anyway — there  is 
the  jug!  "I  don't  trust  him!"  she  exclaimed, 
"and  I  don't  trust  Monk  Bethune,  now.  I'm  glad 
I  found  him  out  before  it  was — too  late.  He's  bad 
— I  could  see  the  evil  glitter  in  his  eyes.  And,  how 
do  I  know  that  he  told  the  truth  about  Lord  Clen- 
denning and  Vil  Holland  ? ' '  Darkness  settled  upon 
the  valley  and  Patty  sought  her  bunk  where,  for 
a  restless  hour,  she  tossed  about  thinking. 

The  following  morning  the  girl  paused,  coffee  pot 
in  hand,  in  the  act  of  preparing  breakfast,  and  lis- 
tened. Distinct  and  clear  above  the  sound  of 
sizzling  bacon,  floated  the  words  of  an  old  ballad: 


Patty  Draws  a  Map  201 

Oh,  ye'll  tak'  the  high  road,  and  I'll  tak'  the  low  road, 
An'  I'll  be  in  Sco'lan'  afore  ye; 

But,  oh,  my  true  love  I'll  never  meet  again, 
On  the  bonnie,  bonnie  banks  o'  Loch  Lomon*. 

Hastening  to  the  open  door  she  peered  down  the 
valley.  The  song  ceased,  and  presently  from  the 
cottonwood  thicket  emerged  a  horse  and  rider. 
The  rider  wore  a  roll-brimmed  hat  and  brilliant 
yellow  chaps,  and  he  was  mounted  upon  a  fan- 
tastically spotted  pinto.  ' '  It's — 'The  Bishop  of  All 
Outdoors',"  she  smiled,  as  she  returned  to  the  stove. 
"He  certainly  has  a  voice.  I  don't  blame  Mr. 
Thompson  for  being  crazy  about  him.  Anybody 
that  can  sing  like  that !     And  he  loves  it,  too." 

A  hearty  "Good  morning"  brought  her  once 
more  to  the  door. 

"Just  in  time  for  breakfast,"  she  smiled  up  into 
the  eyes  of  the  man  on  the  pinto. 

' '  Breakfast !  Bless  you,  I  didn't  stop  for  break- 
fast. I  figured  on  breakfasting  with  my  friend, 
The  Villain,  over  across  the  ridge." 

"The  Villain?" 

"Vil  Holland,"  laughed  the  man.  "His  name, 
I  believe  is,  Villiers.  I  shortened  it  to  Villain, 
and  the  natives  hereabouts  have  bobbed  it  down 


202  The  Gold  Girl 

to  Vil.  But  he'll  have  to  breakfast  alone  this 
morning,  as  usual.  I've  changed  my  mind.  You 
see,  I  share  the  proverbial  weakness  of  the  clergy 
for  a  good  meal.  And  against  so  charming  a  hos- 
tess, old  Vil  hasn't  a  chance  in  the  world."  Dis- 
mounting, the  Reverend  Len  Christie  removed  his 
saddle  and  bridle  and,  with  a  resounding  slap  on 
the  flank  turned  the  pinto  loose.  ' '  Get  along,  old 
Paint,  and  lay  in  some  of  this  good  grass!"  he 
laughed  as  the  pinto,  cavorting  like  a  colt,  galloped 
across  the  creek  to  join  Patty's  hobbled  cayuse. 

"My,  that  bacon  smells  good,"  he  said,  a  mo- 
ment later,  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway  and  watched 
the  girl  turn  the  thin  strips  in  the  pan.  "Do  let 
me  furnish  part  of  the  breakfast,"  he  cried,  eagerly 
and  began  swiftly  to  loosen  from  behind  the  cantle 
of  his  saddle  a  slender  case,  from  which  he  pro- 
duced and  fitted  together  a  two-ounce  rod.  "I'll 
take  it  right  from  your  own  dooryard  in  just  about 
two  jiffies."  He  affixed  a  reel,  threaded  a  cobweb 
line,  and  selected  a  fly.  "Just  save  that  bacon 
fry  for  a  few  minutes  and  we'll  have  some  speckled 
beauties  in  the  pan  before  you  know  it." 

Pushing  the  frying  pan  to  the  back  of  the  stove, 
Patty  accompanied  him  to  the  bank  of  the  stream 
where  she  watched  enthusiastically  as,  one  after 


Patty  Draws  a  Map  203 

another,  he  pulled  four  glistening  trout  from  the 
water. 

"That's  enough,"  he  said,  as  the  fourth  fish  lay 
squirming  upon  the  grass.  And  in  what  seemed  to 
the  girl  an  incredibly  short  time,  he  had  them 
cleaned,  washed,  and  ready  for  the  pan.  While  she 
fried  them  he  busied  himself  with  his  outfit,  wip- 
ing his  rod  and  carefully  returning  it  to  its  case, 
and  spreading  his  line  to  dry.  And  a  few  moments 
later  the  two  sat  down  to  a  breakfast  of  hot  bis- 
cuits, coffee,  bacon,  and  trout,  crisp  and  brown, 
smoking  from  the  pan. 

"You  must  have  ridden  nearly  all  night  to  have 
reached  here  so  early,"  ventured  the  girl  as  she 
poured  a  cup  of  steaming  coffee. 

"No,"  laughed  Christie,  "I  spent  the  night  at 
the  Wattses'.  I  had  some  drawing  paper  and  pen- 
cils for  David  Golieth.  Do  you  know,  I've  a  no- 
tion to  send  that  kid  to  school  some  place.  He's 
wild  about  drawing.  Takes  me  all  over  the  hills 
for  a  mile  or  two  around  the  ranch  and  shows  me 
pictures  he  has  drawn  with  charcoal  wherever 
there  is  a  piece  of  flat  rock.  He's  as  shy  and  sensi- 
tive as  a  girl,  until  he  begins  to  talk  about  his  draw- 
ing, then  his  big  eyes  fairly  glow  with  enthusiasm 
as  he  points  out  the  good  points  of  some  of  his 


2o4  The  Gold  Girl 

creations,  and  the  defects  of  others.  All  of  them, 
of  course,  are  crude  as  the  pictorial  efforts  of  the 
Indians,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  here  and  there  I 
can  see  a  flash  of  real  genius." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  wonderful  if  he  should  become  a 
famous  artist ! ' '  exclaimed  the  girl.  * '  And  wouldn't 
you  feel  proud  of  having  discovered  him?  And  I 
guess  lots  of  them  do  come  from  just  as  unpromis- 
ing parentage." 

"It  wouldn't  be  so  remarkable,"  smiled  the 
man.  "Watts,  himself  is  a  genius — for  inventing 
excuses  to  rest." 

"How  is  the  sick  man?"  asked  Patty.  "The 
one  you  went  to  see,  over  on  Big  Porcupine,  wasn't 
it?" 

"Yes,  old  man  Samuelson.  Fine  old  fellow — 
Samuelson.  I  sure  hope  he'll  pull  through.  Doc 
Mallory  came  while  I  was  there,  and  he  told  me 
he's  got  a  good  fighting  chance.  And  a  fighting 
chance  is  all  that  old  fellow  asks — even  against 
pneumonia.     He's  a  man ! " 

"I  wonder  if  there  is  anything  I  could  do?" 
asked  the  girl. 

Christie's  face  brightened.  "Why,  yes,  if  you 
would.  It's  a  long  ride  from  here — thirty  miles  or 
so.     There's  nothing  you  could  take  them,  they're 


Patty  Draws  a  Map  205 

very  well  fixed — capital  Chinese  cook  and  all  that. 
But  I've  an  idea  that  just  the  fact  that  you  called 
would  cheer  them  immensely.  They  lost  a  daugh- 
ter years  ago  who  would  be  about  your  age,  I 
think.  They've  got  a  son,  but  he's  up  in  Alaska, 
or  some  place  where  they  can't  reach  him.  De- 
cidedly I  think  it  would  do  those  old  people  a  world 
of  good.  You'll  find  Mrs.  Samuelson  different 
from " 

"Ma  Watts?"  interrupted  Patty. 

The  man  laughed,  "Yes,  from  Ma  Watts.  Al- 
though she's  a  well  meaning  soul.  She's  going 
over  and  'stay  a  spell'  with  the  Samuelsons,  just 
as  soon  as  she  can  'fix  to  go.'  Mrs.  Samuelson  is 
a  really  superior  old  lady,  refined  and  lovable  in 
every  way.  You'll  like  her  immensely,  I'm  sure. 
And  I  know  she  will  enjoy  you." 

1 '  Thank  you, ' '  Patty  bowed  elaborately.  ' '  Poor 
thing,  she  must  be  frightfully  lonely." 

"Yes.  Of  course,  the  neighbors  do  all  they  can. 
But  neighbors  are  few  and  far  between.  Vil  Hol- 
land has  been  over  a  couple  of  times,  and  Jack 
Pierce  stopped  work  right  in  the  middle  of  his  up- 
land haying  to  go  to  town  for  some  medicine.  I 
tell  you,  Miss  Sinclair,  a  person  soon  learns  who's 
who  in  the  mountains." 


206  The  Gold  Girl 

Christie  pushed  back  his  chair.  "I  must  be 
going.  I  hate  to  hurry  off,  but  I  want  to  see  Vil 
and  caution  him  to  have  an  eye  on  the  old  man's 
stock — you  see,  there  are  some  shady  characters  in 
the  hills,  and  old  man  Samuelson  runs  horses  as 
well  as  cattle.  It  is  very  possible  they  may  decide 
to  get  busy  while  he  is  laid  up. 

' '  By  the  way,  Miss  Sinclair,  may  I  ask  if  you  are 
making  satisfactory  headway  in  your  own  enter- 
prise?" 

Patty  shook  her  head.  "No.  I'm  afraid  I'm 
making  no  headway  at  all.  Sometimes,  I  think — 
I'm  afraid — "  she  stumbled  for  words. 

"Is  there  anything  in  the  world  I  can  do  to  help 
you?"  asked  the  man,  eagerly.  "If  there  is,  just 
mention  it.  I  knew  your  father,  and  admired  him 
very  much.  I'm  satisfied  he  made  a  strike,  and  I 
do  hope  you  can  locate  it. " 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "No,  nothing,  thank 
you,"  she  answered  and  then  suddenly  looked  up, 
"That  is — wait,  maybe  there  is  something " 

"Name  it."  Christie  waited  eagerly  for  her  to 
speak. 

"It  just  occurred  to  me — maybe  you  could  help 
me — find  a  school." 

"A  school!" 


Patty  Draws  a  Map  207 

"Yes,  a  school  to  teach.  You  see,  I  have  used 
nearly  all  my  money.  By  the  end  of  next  month 
it  will  be  gone,  and  I  must  get  a  job/'  The  man 
noticed  that  the  girl  was  doing  her  best  to  meet  the 
situation  bravely. 

"Indeed  I  will  help  you!"  he  exclaimed.  "In 
fact,  I  think  I  can  right  now  promise  that  when- 
ever you  get  ready  to  accept  it,  there  will  be  a 
position  waiting." 

"Even  if  it  is  only  a  country  school — just  so  I 
can  make  enough  money  this  winter  to  come  back 
next  summer." 

"I  couldn't  think  of  letting  a  country  school  get 
you.  We  need  you  right  in  town.  You  see,  I 
happen  to  be  president  of  the  school  board,  and  if 
I  were  to  let  a  perfectly  good  teacher  get  away,  I'd 
deserve  to  lose  my  job."  Stepping  to  the  door,  he 
whistled  shrilly,  and  a  moment  later  the  piebald 
cayuse  trotted  to  his  side.  When  the  horse  stood 
saddled  and  bridled,  the  man  turned  to  Patty: 
"Oh,  about  the  Samuelsons — do  you  know  how  to 
get  to  Big  Porcupine?" 

Patty  shook  her  head.  "No,  but  I  guess  I  can 
find  it." 

"Give  me  a  pencil  and  a  piece  of  paper,  and  I'll 
show  you  in  a  minute."     Leaning  over  the  table, 


208  The  Gold  Girl 

the  man  sketched  rapidly  upon  the  paper.  ' '  We'll 
say  this  is  the  Watts  ranch,  and  mark  it  R.  That's 
our  starting  point.  Then  you  follow  down  the 
creek  to  the  ford — here,  at  F.  Then,  instead  of 
following  the  trail,  you  turn  due  east,  and  follow 
up  a  little  creek  about  ten  miles .  This  arrow  point- 
ing upward  means  up  the  creek.  When  you  come 
to  a  sharp  pinnacle  that  divides  your  valley — we'll 
mark  that  A  so — you  take  the  right  hand  branch, 
and  follow  it  to  the  divide.  That  leads,  let's  see, 
southeast — we'll  mark  it  S.  E.  3  to  D ;  it  runs  about 
three  miles  to  the  divide  which  you  cross.  Then 
you  follow  down  another  creek  four  or  five  miles 
until  it  empties  into  Big  Porcupine,  4  E.  to  P., 
and  from  there  it's  easy.  Just  turn  up  Porcupine, 
pass  Jack  Pierce's  ranch,  and  about  five  miles  far- 
ther on  you  come  to  Samuelson's.  Do  you  get 
it?" 

Patty  watched  every  move  of  the  pencil,  as  she 
listened  to  the  explanation.  And  when,  a  few 
moments  later,  the  big  " Bishop  of  All  Outdoors" 
crossed  the  ford  and  rode  out  of  sight  up  the  coulee 
that  led  to  the  trampled  notch  in  the  hills,  she 
threw  herself  down  at  the  table  and  with  eyes  big 
with  excitement,  drew  her  father's  map  from  its 
silk  envelope  and  spread  it  out  beside  Christie's 


Patty  Draws  a  Map  209 

roughly  sketched  one.  "What  a  fool  I  am  not 
to  have  guessed  that  those  letters  must  stand 
for  the  points  of  the  compass!"  she  cried.  "It 
ought  to  be  plain  as  day,  now."  Carefully,  she 
read  the  cabalistic  line  at  the  bottom  of  the 
map.  "SCiSi^EiSt  to  n  2  W  to  a.  to  b. 
Stake  L.  C.  2  center."  Her  brow  drew  into  a 
puzzled  frown  "SC,"  she  repeated.  S  stands  for 
south,  but  what  does  SC  mean  ?  SW  or  SE  would  be 
southwest,  or  southeast,  but  SC — ? "  She  glanced 
at  the  other  map.  "Let's  see,  Mr.  Christie's 
first  letter  is  R — that  stands  for  Watts'  Ranch. 
SC  must  represent  daddy's  starting  point,  of 
course!  But,  SC?  Let's  see,  South  Corner — 
south  corner  of  what?  I  wish  he'd  put  his  letters 
right  on  the  map  like  this  one,  instead  of  all  in  a 
row  at  the  bottom,  then  I  might  figure  out  what  he 
was  driving  at.  SC,  SC,  SC,  SC,"  she  repeated 
over  and  over  again,  until  the  letters  became  a 
mere  jumble  of  meaningless  sounds.  "S  must 
stand  for  South,"  she  insisted,  "and  C  could  stand 
for  creek,  or  cave,  only  there  are  no  caves  around 
here  that  I've  seen,  or  camp — South  Camp — that 
don't  do  me  any  good,  I  don't  know  where  any  of 
his  camps  were.  And  he'd  hardly  say  Creek,  that 
would  be  too  indefinite.  Let's  see,  C — cottonwood 
14 


210  The  Gold  Girl 

— south  cottonwood — short  cottonwood,  scarred 
cottonwood,  well  if  I  have  to  hunt  these  hills  over 
for  a  short  cottonwood  or  a  scarred  cottonwood, 
when  there  are  millions  of  both,  I  might  better  keep 
on  hunting  for  the  crack  in  the  rock  wall." 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  staring  at  the  paper,  "If 
I  could  only  get  the  starting  point  figured  out,  the 
rest  would  be  easy.  It  says  one  mile  south,  one 
and  one  half  miles  east,  one  mile  south,  then  the 
arrowhead  pointing  up,  must  mean  up  a  creek  or  a 
mountain  to  something  that  looks  like  an  inverted 
horseshoe,  then,  two  miles  west  to  a.  to  b.  whatever 
a.  and  b.  are.  There  are  no  letters  on  the  map, 
then 'it  says  to  stake  L.  C. — L.  C,  is  lode  claim,  at 
least,  I  know  that  much,  and  it  can  be  1500  feet 
long  along  the  vein,  and  300  feet  each  way  from  the 
center.  But  what  does  he  mean  by  the  wiggly  looking 
mark  before  the  word  center  ?  I  guess  it  isn't  going 
to  be  quite  as  easy  as  it  looks,"  she  concluded, 
"even  when  I  know  that  the  letters  stand  for  the 
points  of  the  compass.  If  I  could  only  figure  out 
where  to  start  from  I  could  find  my  way  at  least 
to  the  a.  b.  part — and  that  would  be  something. 

"Anyway,  I  know  how  to  make  a  map,  now,  and 
that  is  just  exactly  what  I  needed  to  know  in  order 
to  set  my  trap  for  the  prowler  who  is  continually 


Patty  Draws  a  Map  211 

searching  this  cabin.  It's  all  ready  but  the  map, 
and  I  may  as  well  finish  up  the  job  to-day  as  any 
time."  From  the  pocket  of  her  shirt  she  drew  a 
photograph  and  examined  it  critically.  ' '  It  looks 
a  good  deal  like  the  close-up  of  one  of  daddy's," 
she  said  approvingly,  "and  it  certainly  looks  as  if 
it  might  have  been  carried  for  a  year."  Return- 
ing the  picture  to  her  pocket,  she  folded  the  preach- 
er's map  with  her  father's  and  replaced  them  in  the 
envelope,  then  making  her  way  to  the  coulee,  ex- 
tracted from  the  tin  can  two  or  three  of  her  father's 
ore  samples.  These,  together  with  a  light  miner's 
pick,  she  placed  in  an  empty  flour  sack  which  she 
secured  to  her  saddle  and  struck  out  northwest- 
ward into  the  hills. 

At  the  top  of  the  first  divide  she  stopped,  care- 
fully studied  the  back  trail,  and  producing  paper 
and  pencil  made  a  rough  sketch  which  she  marked 
1  NW.  She  rode  on,  mapping  her  trail  and  adding 
letters  and  figures  to  denote  distance  and  direction. 

Her  continued  scrutiny  of  the  back  trail  satisfied 
her  that  she  was  not  followed.  Two  hours  brought 
her  to  her  journey's  end,  a  rock  wall  some  seven 
miles  from  her  cabin.  Producing  the  photograph, 
she  verified  the  exact  location,  and  with  her  pick, 
proceeded  to  stir  up  the  ground  and  loose  rocks  at 


212  The  Gold  Girl 

the  base  of  the  ledge.  For  an  hour  she  worked 
steadily,  then  carefully  replaced  the  dirt  and  small 
fragments,  taking  care  to  leave  the  samples  from 
her  sack  where  they  would  appear  to  have  been 
tossed  with  the  other  fragments.  Indicating  the 
spot  by  a  dot  on  the  photograph  she  rode  back  to 
her  cabin  and  spent  the  entire  afternoon  covering 
sheets  of  paper  with  trail  maps,  and  letters,  and 
figures,  in  an  endeavor  to  produce  a  sketch  that 
would  pass  as  a  prospector's  hastily  prepared  field 
map.  At  last  she  produced  several  that  compared 
favorably  with  her  father's  and  taking  a  blank  leaf 
from  an  old  notebook  she  found  in  the  pack  sack, 
drew  a  very  creditable  rough  sketch. 

"Now,  for  putting  in  the  letters  and  figures," 
she  said,  as  she  held  the  paper  up  for  inspection. 
"Let's  see,  where  would  daddy  have  started  from? 
Watts's  ranch,  maybe,  or  he  could  have  started  from 
here.  This  cabin  was  here  then,  and  that  would 
make  it  seem  all  the  more  reasonable  that  I  should 
have  chosen  this  for  my  home.  C  stands  for  cabin, 
or,  let's  see,  what  did  they  call  this  place.  The 
sheep  camp,  here  goes  SC — Why!  SC — SC! 
That's  the  starting  point  on  daddy's  map!  And 
here  I  sat  right  in  this  chair  and  nearly  went  crazy 
trying  to  figure  out  what  SC  meant !     And,  if  it 


Patty  Draws  a  Map  213 

weren't  so  late,  I'd  start  right  out  now  to  find  my 
mine!  If  it  weren't  for  that  a.  b.  part  I  could  ride 
right  to  it,  and  snap  my  fingers  at  the  prowler. 
But,  it  may  take  me  a  long  time  to  blunder  onto  the 
meaning  of  these  letters,  and  anyway,  I  want  to 
know  'who's  who,'  as  Mr.  Christie  says."  She 
continued  her  work,  and  a  half -hour  later  examined 
the  result  critically.  "SC  I  NW  iNtto"Lr2E 
to  a.  Stake  L.  C.  center  at  dot,"  she  read,  "and 
just  to  make  it  easier  for  him,  I  put  the  a.  down 
on  the  map."  With  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  the  girl 
carefully  placed  the  new  map  and  photograph  in 
the  silk  envelope,  and  placing  the  others  in  the 
pocket  of  her  shirt,  fastened  it  with  a  pin.  Where- 
upon, she  gathered  up  all  the  practice  sketches  and 
burned  them. 

Glancing  out  of  the  window,  she  saw  Microby 
Dandeline  approaching  the  cabin,  her  dejected  old 
Indian  pony,  ears  a-flop,  placing  one  foot  before 
the  other  with  the  extreme  deliberation  that  char- 
acterized his  every  movement.  Patty  smiled  as 
her  eyes  took  in  the  details  of  the  grotesque  figure ; 
the  old  harness  bridle  with  patched  reins  and  one 
blinder  dangling,  the  faded  gingham  sun-bonnet 
hanging  at  the  back  of  the  girl's  neck,  held  in  place 
by  the  strings  knotted  tightly  beneath  her  chin, 


214  The  Gold  Girl 

the  misshapen  calico  dress  caught  over  the  saddle- 
horn  in  a  manner  that  exposed  the  girl's  bare  legs 
to  the  knees,  and  the  thick  bare  feet  pressed  un- 
comfortably into  the  chafing  rope  stirrups — truly, 
a  grotesque,  and  yet,  Patty  frowned — a  pitiable 
figure,  too.  The  pony  halted  before  the  door,  and 
Patty  greeted  the  girl  who  scrambled  clumsily  to 
the  ground. 

"Well,  well,  if  it  isn't  Microby  Dandeline! 
You  haven't  been  to  see  me  lately.  The  last 
time  you  were  here  I  was  not  at  home." 

"Hit  wasn't  me." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Patty,  remembering  the 
barefoot  track  at  the  spring. 

"I  wasn't  yere  las'  time." 

Patty  curbed  a  desire  to  laugh.  The  girl  was 
deliberately  lying — but  why  ?  Was  it  because  she 
feared  displeasure  at  the  invasion  of  the  cabin. 
Patty  thought  not,  for  such  was  the  established 
custom  of  the  country.  The  girl  did  not  look  at 
her,  but  stood  boring  into  the  dirt  with  her  bare 
toe. 

"Well,  you're  here  now,  anyway,"  smiled  Patty. 
"Come  on  in  and  help  me  get  supper,  and  then 
we'll  eat.  You  get  the  water,  while  I  build  the 
fire." 


Patty  Draws  a  Map  215 

When  the  girl  returned  from  the  spring,  Patty- 
tried  again:  "While  I  was  in  town  somebody 
came  here  and  cooked  a  meal,  and  when  they  got 
through  they  washed  all  the  dishes  and  put  them 
away  so  nicely  I  thought  sure  it  was  you,  and  I 
was  glad,  because  I  like  to  have  you  come  and  see 
me." 

"Hit  wasn't  me,"  repeated  the  girl,  stubbornly. 

"I  wonder  who  it  could  have  been? " 

"Mebbe  hit  was  Mr.  Christie.  He  was  to  our 
house  las'  night.  He  brung  Davy  some  pencils 
an'  a  lot  o'  papers  fer  to  draw  pitchers.  Pa  'lowed 
how  Davy'd  git  to  foolin'  away  his  time  on  'em, 
an'  Mr.  Christie  says  how  ef  he  learnt  to  drawer 
good,  folks  buys  'em,  an'  then  Davy'll  git  rich. 
Pa  says,  whut's  folks  gonna  pay  money  fer  pitchers 
they  kin  git  'em  fer  nothin'?  But  ef  folks  gits 
pitchers  they  does  git  rich,  don't  they  ? " 

"Why,  yes " 

"You  got  pitchers,  an'  yo'  rich." 

Patty  laughed.  "I'm  afraid  I 'm  not  very  rich, ' ' 
she  said. 

"Will  yo'  give  me  a  pitcher? " 

1 '  Why,  yes . ' '  She  glanced  at  the  few  prints  that 
adorned  the  log  wall,  trying  to  make  up  her  mind 
which  she  would  part  with,  and  deciding  upon  a 


2i6  The  Gold  Girl 

mysterious  moonlight-on-the-waves  effect,  lifted 
it  from  the  wall  and  placed  it  in  the  girl's  hands. 

Microby  Dandeline  stared  at  it  without  enthusi- 
asm: "I  want  a  took  one,"  she  said,  at  length. 

"A  what?" 

"A  one  tooken  with  that,"  she  pointed  at  the 
camera  that  adorned  the  top  of  the  little  cupboard. 

"Oh,"  smiled  Patty,  "you  want  me  to  take  your 
picture!  All  right,  I'd  love  to  take  your  picture. 
You  can  get  on  Gee  Dot,  and  I'll  take  you  both. 
But  we'll  have  to  wait  till  there  is  more  light.  The 
sun  has  gone  down  and  it's  too  dark  this  evening." 

The  girl  shook  her  head,  "Naw,  I  don't  want 
none  like  that.  That  hain't  no  good.  I  want  one 
like  yo'  pa  tookened  of  his  mine.  Then  I'll  git 
rich  too." 

"So  that's  it,"  thought  Patty,  busying  herself 
with  the  biscuit  dough.  And  instantly  there 
flashed  into  her  mind  the  words  of  Ma  Watts, ' '  Mr. 
Bethune  tellin'  her  how  she'd  git  rich  ef  she  could 
fin'  a  gol'  mine,  an'  how  she  could  buy  her  fine  clos' 
like  yourn  an'  go  to  the  city  an'  live."  And  she 
remembered  that  the  woman  had  said  that  all  the 
time  she  and  Lord  Clendenning  had  been  wrangling 
over  the  eggs,  Bethune  and  Microby  had  "talked 
an'  laughed,  friendly  as  yo'  please." 


Patty  Draws  a  Map  217 

"How  do  you  know  my  father  took  any  pictures 
of  his  mine?"  asked  Patty,  cautiously. 

'"Cause  he  did." 

"What  would  you  do  with  the  picture  if  I  gave 
it  to  you?" 

"I'd  git  rich." 

"How?" 

"'Cause  I  would." 

Patty  whirled  suddenly  upon  the  girl  and  grasp- 
ing her  shoulder  with  a  doughy  hand  shook  her 
smartly:  "Who  told  you  that?  What  do  you 
mean  ?  Who  are  you  trying  to  get  that  picture  for  ? 
Come!    Out  with  it!" 

"Le'  me  go,"  whimpered  the  girl,  frightened  by 
the  unexpected  attack. 

"Not  'til  you  tell  me  who  told  you  about  that 
picture.  Come  on — speak!"  The  shaking  con- 
tinued. 

"Hit— wu-wu-wus— V-V-Vil  Hoi-Holland!"  she 
sniffled  readily — all  too  readily  to  be  convincing, 
thought  Patty,  as  she  released  her  grip  on  the  girl's 
shoulder. 

' '  Oh,  it  was  Vil  Holland,  was  it  ?  And  what  does 
he  want  with  it?" 

1 '  He — he — s-says  h-how  h-him  an'  m-me'd  g-git 
r-r-rich!" 


2i8  The  Gold  Girl 

"Who  told  you  to  say  it  was  Vil  Holland? " 

"Hit  wus  Vil  Holland — an'  that's  whut  I  gotta 
say,"  she  repeated,  between  sobs.  "An'  now  yo' 
mad— an'— an'  Mr.  Bethune  he'll— he'll  kill  me." 

"Mr.  Bethune?  What  has  Mr.  Bethune  got  to 
do  with  it?" 

The  girl  leaped  to  her  feet  and  faced  Patty  in  a 
rage:  "An'  he'll  kill  yo',  too — an'  I'll  be  glad! 
An'  he  says  he's  gonna  By  God  git  that  pitcher  ef 
he's  gotta  kill  yo',  an'  Vil  Holland,  an'  everyone 
in  these  damn  hills — an'  I'm  glad  of  hit!  I  don't 
like  yo'  no  more — an'  pitcher  shows  hain yt  as  good 
as  circusts — an'  I  don't  like  towns — an'  I  hain't 
a-gonna  wear  no  shoes  an'  stockin's — an'  I'm  a- 
gonna  tell  ma  yo'  shuck  me — an'  she'll  larrup  yo* 
good — an'  pa'll  make  yo'  git  out  o'  ar  sheep  camp — 
an'  I'm  glad  of  hit!"  She  rushed  from  the  cabin, 
and  mounting  her  pony,  headed  him  down  the 
creek,  turning  in  the  saddle  every  few  steps  to  make 
hateful  mouths  at  the  girl  who  stood  watching  from 
the  doorway. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


THE   SAMUELSONS 


Patty  retired  that  night  with  her  thoughts  in  a 
whirl.  So,  it  was  Monk  Bethune  who,  all  along, 
had  been  plotting  to  steal  the  secret  of  her  father's 
strike?  Monk  Bethune,  with  his  suave,  oily  man- 
ner, his  professed  regard  for  her  father,  and  his 
burning  words  of  love!  Fool  that  she  couldn't 
have  penetrated  his  thin  mask  of  deceit!  It  all 
seemed  so  ridiculously  plain,  now.  She  remem- 
bered the  flash  of  distrust  that  her  first  meeting 
with  him  engendered.  And,  step,  by  step,  she 
followed  the  course  of  his  insidious  campaign  to 
instill  himself  into  her  good  graces.  She  thought 
of  the  blunt  warning  of  Vil  Holland  when  he  told 
her  that  her  father  always  played  a  lone  hand,  and 
his  almost  scornful  question  as  to  whether  her 
father  had  told  her  of  his  partnership  with  Bethune. 
And  she  remembered  her  defiance  of  Holland,  and 
her  defense  of  Bethune.     And,  with  a  shudder,  she 

219 


220  The  Gold  Girl 

recollected  the  moments  when,  in  the  hopelessness 
of  her  repeated  failures,  she  had  trembled  upon  the 
point  of  surrendering  to  his  persuasive  eloquence. 

With  the  villainous  scheming  of  Bethune  ex- 
posed, her  thoughts  turned  to  the  other,  to  her 
"guardian  devil  of  the  hills."  What  of  Vil  Hol- 
land? Had  she  misjudged  this  man,  even  as  she 
had  so  nearly  become  the  dupe  of  Bethune  ?  She 
realized  now,  that  nearly  everyone  with  whom 
she  had  come  into  contact,  distrusted  Bethune,  and 
that  they  trusted  Vil  Holland.  She  realized  that 
her  own  distrust  of  him  rested  to  a  great  extent 
upon  the  open  accusations  of  Bethune,  and  the  fact 
that  he  was  blunt  to  rudeness  in  his  conversations 
with  her.  If  he  were  to  be  taken  at  his  neighbors' 
valuation,  why  was  it  that  he  watched  her  comings 
and  goings  from  his  notch  in  the  hills  ?  Why  did 
he  follow  her  about  upon  her  rides  ?  And  why  did 
he  carry  that  disgusting  jug?  She  admitted  that 
she  had  never  seen  him  the  worse  for  indulgence 
in  the  contents  of  the  jug,  but  if  he  were  not  a  con- 
firmed drunkard,  why  should  he  carry  it?  She 
knew  Bethune  hated  him — and  that  counted  a 
point  in  his  favor — now.  But  it  did  not  prove  that 
he  was  not  as  bad  as  Bethune.  But  why  had  Be- 
thune told  Microby  that  he  would  get  that  picture 


The  Samuelsons  221 

if  he  had  to  kill  her  and  Vil  Holland?  What  had 
Vil  Holland  to  do  with  his  getting  the  picture! 
Surely,  Bethune  did  not  believe  that  Vil  Holland 
shared  her  secret !  Vil  Holland  must  be  lawless — 
the  running  of  the  sheep  herder  out  of  the  hills  was 
a  lawless  act.  Why,  then,  were  such  men  as 
Thompson  and  the  Reverend  Len  Christie  his 
friends?  This  question  had  puzzled  her  much  of 
late,  and  not  finding  the  answer,  she  realized  her 
own  dislike  of  the  man  had  waned  perceptibly. 
Instinctively,  she  knew  that  Len  Christie  was 
genuine.  She  liked  this  "  Bishop  of  All  Outdoors,' ' 
who  could  find  time  to  ride  a  hundred  miles  to 
cheer  a  sick  old  man ;  who  would  think  to  bring 
pencils  and  drawing  paper  to  a  little  boy  who 
roamed  over  the  hillsides  with  a  piece  of  charcoal, 
searching  for  flat  rocks  upon  which  to  draw  his 
pictures;  and  who  sang  deep,  full-throated  ballads 
as  he  rode  from  one  to  the  other  of  his  scattered 
hill  folk,  upon  his  outlandish  pinto.  Surely,  such 
men  as  he,  and  the  jovial,  whole-hearted  Thomp- 
son— men  who  had  known  Vil  Holland  for  years, 
— could  not  be  deceived. 

"Is  it  possible  I've  misjudged  him?"  she  asked 
herself.  And  when  at  last  she  dropped  to  sleep  it 
was  to  plunge  into  a  confused  jumble  of  dreams 


222  The  Gold  Girl 

whose  dominant  figure  was  her  lone  horseman  of 
the  hills. 

Patty  resolved  to  keep  her  promise  to  Christie 
and  ride  over  to  the  Samuelson  ranch,  before  she 
started  to  work  out  the  directions  of  her  father's 
map.  "I  may  be  weeks  doing  it  if  I  continue  to 
be  as  dumb  as  I  have  been,"  she  laughed.  "And 
when  I  get  started  I  know  I'll  never  want  to  stop 
'til  I've  worked  it  out." 

Immediately  after  breakfast  she  saddled  her 
horse  and  returning  to  the  cabin,  picked  up  the 
little  oiled  silk  packet  that  contained  photograph 
and  map.  Where  should  she  hide  it?  Her  glance 
traveled  from  the  locked  trunks  to  the  loose  board 
in  the  floor.  Each  had  been  searched  time  and 
again.  "Whoever  he  is,  he'd  think  it  was  funny 
that  I  decided  all  at  once  to  hide  the  map,  when 
I've  been  carrying  it  with  me  so  persistently,"  she 
muttered.  Her  eyes  rested  upon  the  little  dressing 
table.  "The  very  thing!"  she  cried.  "I'll  leave 
it  right  out  in  plain  sight,  and  he'll  think  I  forgot 
it."  Her  first  impulse  was  to  remove  the  thin 
gold  chain  but  she  shook  her  head:  "No,  it  will 
look  more  as  if  I'd  just  slipped  it  off  for  the  night 
if  I  leave  the  chain  on.  And  besides,"  she  smiled, 
"he  ought  to  get  some  gold  for  his  pains."     With 


The  Samuelsons  223 

a  last  glance  of  approval  at  the  little  packet  lying 
as  if  forgotten  upon  the  dressing  table,  she  closed 
the  door  and  headed  down  the  creek. 

It  was  evident  to  Patty,  upon  reaching  the  Watts 
ranch  that  Microby  Dandeline  had  not  carried  out 
her  threat  to  "tell  ma"  about  the  shaking.  For 
the  mountain  woman  was  loquaciously  cordial  as 
usual:  "Decla'r  ef  hit  hain't  yo',  up  an*  a-ridin, 
fo'  sun-up!  Yo'  shore  favor  yo'  pa.  He  wus  the 
gittin'est  man —  Yo'd  a-thought  he  wus  ridin'  fer 
wages,  'stead  o'  jest  prospectin'.  Goin'  down  the 
crick,  to-day,  eh?  Well,  I  don't  reckon  yo'  pa's 
claim's  down  the  crick,  but  yo'  cain't  never  tell. 
He  wus  that  clost-mouthed — I've  heard  him  an* 
Watts  set  a  hour,  an'  nary  word  between  the  two  of 
'em.  'Pears  like  they's  jest  satisfied  to  be  a-light- 
in'  matches  an'  a-puffin'  they  pipes.  Wimmin 
folks  hain't  like  thet.  They  jest  nachelly  got  to 
let  out  a  word  now  an'  then,  'er  bust — one." 

"Microby  Dandeline!"  there  was  a  sudden  rush 
of  bare  feet  upon  the  wooden  floor,  and  Patty 
caught  a  flick  of  calico  and  a  flash  of  bare  legs  as 
the  girl  disappeared  around  the  corner  of  the  barn. 

"  Land  sakes !  Thet  gal  acts  like  she's  p'ssessed ! 
She  tellin'  whut  a  nice  time  she  had  to  yo'  place  las' 
evenin',  an'  then  a-runnin'  away  like  she's  wild  as 


224  The  Gold  Girl 

a  hawrk.  Seems  like  she's  a-gittin'  mo'  triflin' 
every  day " 

"Sence  Monk  Bethune's  tuk  to  ha'ntin'  this 
yere  crick  so  reg'lar,"  interrupted  Watts,  who  stood 
leaning  against  the  door  jamb. 

"  '  T'aint  nothin*  agin  Mr.  Bethune,  'cause  he's 
nice  to  Microby,"  retorted  the  woman;  "I  s'pose 
'cordin'  to  yo'  idee,  he'd  ort  to  cuss  her  an'  kick 
her  aroun'." 

"Might  be  better  in  the  long  run,  an'  he  did," 
opined  the  man,  gloomily. 

1 '  Where's  yo'  manners  at  ?  Not  sayin' '  howdy'  ? ' ' 
reminded  his  wife. 

"I  be'n  a-fixin'  to,"  he  apologized,  "yo'  lookin' 
mighty  peart  this  mawnin'."  A  cry  from  the 
baby  brought  a  torrent  of  recrimination  upon  the 
apathetic  husband:  "Watts!  Watts!  Looks  like 
yo'  ort  to  could  look  after  Chattenoogy  Tennessee, 
that  Microby  Dandeline  run  off  an'  left  alone. 
Like's  not  she's  et  a  nail  thet  yo'  left  a  han'ful  of 
on  the  floor  thet  day  yo'  aimed  fer  to  fix  me  a 
shelft." 

"She  never  et  no  nail,"  confided  the  man,  as 
he  returned  a  moment  later  carrying  the  infant. 
"She  done  fell  out  the  do'  an'  them  hens  wus  a- 
peckin'  her.     She's  scairt  wuss'n  hurt." 


The  Samuelsons  225 

"Well,"  smiled  Patty.  "I  must  go.  Tell  Mi- 
croby  to  come  up  to  my  cabin  right  soon.  I'd 
like  to  have  a  talk  with  her." 

"  Might  an'  yo'  pa's  claim  'ud  be  som'ers  up  the 
no'th  branch,"  suggested  the  woman.  "He  rid 
that-a-way  sometimes,  didn't  he,  Watts?" 

"I'm  not  prospecting  to-day.  I'm  going  over 
to  see  the  Samuelsons.     Mr.  Samuelson  is  sick." 

"  Law,  yes!  I  be'n  a-aimin'  fer  to  git  to  go,  this 
long  while.  I  heern  it  a  spell  back,  an'  Mr.  Chris- 
tie done  tol'  us  over  again.  They  do  say  he's  bad 
off.  But  yo'  cain't  never  tell,  they's  hopes  of  'em 
gittin'  onto  they  feet  agin  right  up  'til  yo'  hear 
the  death  rattle.  Yo'  tell  Miz  Samuelson  I  aim  to 
git  over  soon's  I  kin.  I'll  bring  along  the  baby  an' 
a  batch  o'  sourdough  bread,  an'  fix  to  stay  a  hull 
week.  Watts'll  hev  to  make  out  with  Microby 
an'  the  rest.  Yo'  tell  Miz  Samuelson  I  say  not  to 
git  down  in  the  mouth.  They  all  got  to  die  any- 
how. An'  'taint  so  bad,  onct  it's  over  an'  done. 
But  lots  of  'em  gits  well,  too.  So  they  hain't  no 
call  to  do  no  diggin'  right  up  to  the  death  rattle — 
an'  even  then  they  don't  alius  die.  01'  man  Rink, 
over  on  Tom's  Hope,  back  in  Tennessee,  he  rattled 
twict,  an'  come  to  both  times,  an'  then,  couple 
days  later,  he  up  an'  died  on  'em  'thout  nary  rattle. 


226  The  Gold  Girl 

So  yo'  cain't  never  tell — men's  thet  ornery,  even 
the  best  of  'em." 

Christie's  prediction  that  Patty  would  like  Mrs. 
Samuelson  proved  to  be  conservative  in  the  ex- 
treme. From  the  moment  the  slight  gray-haired 
little  woman  greeted  her,  the  girl  felt  as  though  she 
were  talking  to  an  old  friend.  There  was  some- 
thing pathetic  in  the  old  lady's  cheerful  optimism, 
something  profoundly  pathetic  in  the  endeavor  to 
transform  her  bit  of  wilderness  into  some  semblance 
to  the  far-away  home  she  had  known  in  the  long 
ago.  And  she  had  succeeded  admirably.  To 
cross  the  Samuelson  threshold  was  to  step  from 
the  atmosphere  of  the  cow-country  and  the  moun- 
tains into  a  region  of  comfort  and  quiet  that  con- 
trasted sharply  with  the  rough  and  ready  air  of 
the  neighboring  ranches.  The  house  itself  was  not 
large,  but  it  was  built  of  lumber,  not  logs.  The 
long  living  room  was  provided  with  tastefully  cur- 
tained casement  windows,  and  rugs  of  excellent 
quality  took  the  place  of  the  inevitable  carpet  upon 
the  floor.  A  baby  grand  piano  projected  into  the 
room  from  its  niche  beside  the  huge  log  fireplace, 
and  bookcases,  guiltless  of  glass  fronts,  occupied 
convenient  spaces  along  the  wall,  their  shelves  sup- 
porting row  upon  row  of  good  editions.     It  was  in 


The  Samuelsons  227 

this  room,  looking  as  though  she  had  stepped  from 
an  ivory  miniature,  that  the  mistress  of  the  house 
greeted  Patty. 

"You  are  very  welcome,  my  dear.  Mr.  Samuel- 
son  and  I  were  deeply  grieved  to  hear  the  sad  news 
of  your  father.  We  used  to  enjoy  his  occasional 
brief  visits." 

"How  is  Mr.  Samuelson?"  asked  Patty,  as  she 
pressed  the  little  woman's  thin,  blue-veined  hand. 

"He  seems  better  to-day." 

The  girl  noted  the  hopeful  tone  of  voice.  "Is 
there  anything  I  can  do?"  she  asked. 

"Not  a  thing,  thank  you.  Mr.  Samuelson 
sleeps  a  good  part  of  the  time,  and  Wong  Yie  is 
a  wonderful  nurse.  But,  come,  you  must  have 
luncheon.  I  know  you  will  want  to  refresh  your- 
self after  your  long  ride.  The  bathroom  is  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs.  I'll  take  a  peep  at  my  invalid 
and  when  you  are  ready  we'll  see  what  Wong  Yie 
has  for  us." 

Patty  looked  hungrily  at  the  porcelain  tub — "A 
real  bathroom!"  she  breathed,  "out  here  in  the 
mountains — and  books,  and  a  piano!" 

Mrs.  Samuelson  awaited  her  at  the  foot  of 
the  stair  and  led  the  way  to  the  dining  room. 
When  she  was  seated  at  the  round  mahogany 


228  The  Gold  Girl 

table  she  smiled  across  at  the  old  lady  in  frank 
appreciation. 

"It  seems  like  stepping  right  into  fairyland," 
she  said.  "Like  the  old  stories  when  the  heroes 
and  heroines  rubbed  magic  lamps,  or  stepped  onto 
enchanted  carpets  and  were  immediately  trans- 
ported from  their  miserable  hovels  to  castles  of 
gold  inhabited  by  beautiful  princes  and  princesses/' 

The  old  lady's  eyes  beamed:  "I'm  glad  you 
like  it!" 

"Like  it !  That  doesn't  express  it  at  all.  Why, 
if  you'd  lived  in  an  abandoned  sheep  camp  for 
months  and  prepared  your  own  meals  on  a  broken 
stove,  and  eaten  them  all  alone  on  a  bumpy  table 
covered  with  a  piece  of  oilcloth,  and  taken  your 
bath  in  an  icy  cold  creek  and  then  only  on  the  dark- 
est nights  for  fear  someone  were  watching,  and 
read  a  few  magazines  over  and  over  'til  you  knew 
even  the  advertisements  by  heart — then  suddenly 
found  yourself  seated  in  a  room  like  this,  with  real 
china  and  silver,  and  comfortable  chairs  and  a 
luncheon  cloth — you'd  think  it  was  heaven." 

Patty  was  aware  that  the  old  lady  was  smiling  at 
her  across  the  table.  "  If  I  had  lived  like  that  for 
months,  did  you  say?  My  dear  girl,  we  lived  for 
years  in  that  little  shack — you  can  see  it  from  where 


The  Samuelsons  229 

you  sit — it's  the  tool  house,  now.  Mr.  Samuelson 
built  it  with  his  own  hands  when  there  weren't  a 
half-dozen  white  men  in  the  hills,  and  until  it  was 
completed  we  lived  in  a  tepee!" 

"You've  lived  here  a  long  time." 

"Yes,  a  long,  long  time.  I  was  the  first  white 
woman  to  come  into  this  part  of  the  hill  country  to 
live.  This  was  the  first  ranch  to  be  established 
in  the  hills,  but  we  have  a  good  many  neighbors 
now — and  such  nice  neighbors!  One  never  really 
appreciates  friends  and  neighbors  until  a  time — like 
this.  Then  one  begins  to  know.  A  long  time  ago, 
before  I  knew,  I  used  to  hate  this  place.  Some- 
times I  used  to  think  I  would  go  crazy,  with  the 
loneliness — the  vastness  of  it  all.  I  used  to  go 
home  and  make  long  visits  every  year,  and  then — 
the  children  came,  and  it  was  different."  The 
woman  paused  and  her  eyes  strayed  to  the  open 
window  and  rested  upon  the  bold  headland  of  a 
mighty  mountain  that  showed  far  down  the 
valley. 

"And — you  love  it,  now?"  Patty  asked,  softly, 
as  she  poured  French  dressing  over  crisp  lettuce 
leaves. 

"  Yes — I  love  it,  now.  After  the  children  came 
it  was  all  different.     I  never  want  to  leave  the 


230  The  Gold  Girl 

valley,  now.  I  never  shall  leave  it.  I  am  an  old 
woman,  and  my  world  has  narrowed  down  to  my 
home,  and  my  valley — my  husband,  and  my 
friends  and  neighbors."  She  looked  up  guiltily, 
with  a  tiny  little  laugh.  "Do  you  know,  during 
those  first  years  I  must  have  been  an  awful  fool. 
I  used  to  loathe  it  all — loathe  the  country — the 
men,  who  ate  in  their  shirt  sleeves  and  blew  into 
their  saucers,  and  their  women.  It  was  the  up- 
rising that  brought  me  to  a  realization  of  the  true 
worth  of  these  people — "  The  little  woman's 
voice  trailed  off  into  silence,  and  Patty  glanced  up 
from  her  salad  to  see  that  the  old  eyes  were  once 
more  upon  the  far  blue  headland,  and  the  woman's 
thoughts  were  evidently  very  far  away.  She  came 
back  to  the  present  with  an  apology:  "Why  bless 
you,  child,  forgive  me!  My  old  wits  were  back- 
trailing,  as  the  cowboys  would  say.  You  have 
finished  your  salad,  come,  let's  go  out  onto  the 
porch,  where  we  can  get  the  afternoon  breeze  and 
be  comfortable."  She  led  the  way  through  the 
living-room  where  she  left  the  girl  for  a  moment, 
to  tiptoe  upstairs  for  a  peep  at  the  sick  man. 
"He's  asleep,"  she  reported,  as  they  stepped  out 
onto  the  porch  and  settled  themselves  in  comfort- 
able wicker  rockers. 


The  Samuelsons  231 

"  What  was  the  uprising  ? ' '  asked  Patty.  '  •  Was 
it  the  Indians ?    I'd  love  to  hear  about  it." 

"  Yes,  the  Indians.  That  was  before  they  were 
on  reservations  and  they  were  scattered  all  through 
the  hills." 

A  cowboy  galloped  to  the  porch,  drew  up  sharply, 
and  removed  his  hat.  "We  rode  through  them 
horses  that  runs  over  on  the  east  slope  an'  they're 
all  right — leastways  all  the  markers  is  there,  an' 
the  bunches  don't  look  like  they'd  be'n  any  cut  out 
of  'em.  But,  about  them  white  faces — Lodge- 
pole's  most  dried  up.  Looks  like  we'd  ort  to  throw 
'em  over  onto  Sage  Crick." 

The  little  woman  looked  thoughtful.  "Let's 
see,  there  are  about  six  hundred  of  the  white 
faces,  aren't  there?" 

"Yessum." 

1 1  And  how  long  will  the  water  last  in  Lodgepole  ? ' ' 

"Not  more'n  a  week  or  ten  days,  if  we  don't  git 
no  rain." 

1  ■  How  long  will  it  take  to  throw  them  onto  Sage 
Creek?" 

"Well,  they  hadn't  ort  to  be  crowded  none  this 
time  o'  year.  The  four  of  us  had  ort  to  do  it  in 
three  or  four  days." 

The  old  lady  shook  her  head.     "No,  the  cattle 


232  The  Gold  Girl 

will  have  to  wait.  I  want  you  boys  to  stay  right 
around  close  'til  you  hear  from  Vil  Holland.  Keep 
your  best  saddle  horses  up  and  at  least  one  of  you 
stay  right  here  at  the  ranch  all  the  time.  The  rest 
of  you  might  ride  fences,  and  you  better  take  a  look 
at  those  mares  and  colts  in  the  big  pasture." 

The  cowboy's  eyes  twinkled:  "I  savvy,  all 
right.  Guess  I'll  take  the  bunk-house  shift  myself 
this  afternoon.  Got  a  couple  extry  guns  to  clean 
up  an'  oil  a  little." 

"Whatever  you  do,  you  boys  be  careful,"  ad- 
monished the  woman.  "And  in  case  anything 
happens  and  Vil  Holland  isn't  here,  send  one  of 
the  boys  after  him  at  once." 

The  other  laughed:  "Guess  they  ain't  much 
danger,  if  anything  happens  he  won't  be  a-ridin' 
right  on  the  head  of  it."  The  cowboy  gathered  up 
his  reins,  dropped  them  again,  and  his  gloved 
fingers  fumbled  with  his  leather  hat  band.  The 
smile  had  left  his  face. 

"Anything  else,  Bill?"  asked  Mrs.  Samuelson, 
noting  his  evident  reluctance  to  depart. 

"Well,  ma'am,  how's  the  Big  Boss  gittin'  on?" 

"He's  doing  as  well  as  could  be  expected,  the 
doctor  says." 

The    cowboy    cleared    his    throat    nervously: 


The  Samuelsons  233 

"You  know,  us  boys  thinks  a  heap  of  him,  an' 
we'd  like  fer  him  to  git  a  square  deal." 

'  'A  square  deal ! ' '  exclaimed  the  woman.  ' '  Why, 
what  in  the  world  do  you  mean?" 

"About  that  there  doc — d'you  s'pect  he  savvys 
his  business?" 

■ '  Of  course  he  does !  He's  considered  one  of  the 
best  doctors  in  the  State.     Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Well,  it's  this  way.  When  he  was  goin'  back 
to  town  yesterday  I  laid  for  him.  You  see,  the 
Old  Man — er,  I  mean — you  know,  ma'am,  the  Big 
Boss,  he's  a  pretty  sick  man — an'  it  looks  to  us 
boys  like  things  had  ort  to  break  pretty  quick,  one 
way  er  another.  So,  I  says,  'Doc,  how's  he  gittin' 
on?'  an'  the  doc  he  says,  jest  like  you  done,  'good 
as  could  be  expected. '  When  you  come  right  down 
to  cases,  that  don't  tell  you  nothin'.  So  I  says, 
'that's  'cordin'  to  who's  doin'  the  expectin'. 
What  we  want  to  know,'  I  says,  'is  he  goin'  to  git 
well,  er  is  he  goin'  to  die?'  'I  confidently  hope 
we're  going  to  pull  him  through, '  he  comes  back. 
'Meanin',  he's  goin'  to  git  well?'  I  says.  'Yes,' 
he  says.  'Fer  how  much?'  I  asks  him.  I  didn't 
have  but  thirty-five  dollars  on  me,  but  I  shook  that 
in  under  his  nose.  You  see,  I  wanted  to  find  out 
if  the  fellow  would  back  his  own  self  up  with  his 


234  The  Gold  Girl 

money.  '  What  do  you  mean  ? '  he  says.  4 1  mean, ' 
I  informs  him,  'that  money  talks.  Here's  the 
Missus  payin'  you  good  wages  fer  to  cure  up  the 
Old  Man.  You  goin'  to  do  it,  an*  earn  them 
wages,  or  ain't  you?  Here's  thirty-five  dollars 
that  says  you  can't  cure  him.' " 

The  corners  of  the  old  lady's  mouth  were  twitch- 
ing behind  the  handkerchief  she  held  to  her  lips: 
"What  did  the  doctor  say ? "  she  asked. 

"Tried  to  laugh  it  off,"  declared  the  cowboy  in 
disgust.  "But  I  reminds  him  that  this  here  ain't 
no  laughin'  matter.  'D'you  s'pose,'  I  says,  'if 
the  Old  Man  told  me:  "Bill,  there's  a  bad  colt  to 
bust,"  or  "Bill,  go  over  onto  Monte's  Crick,  an* 
bring  back  them  two-year-olds,"  do  you  s'pose  I 
wouldn't  bet  I  could  do  it  ?  They 's  plenty  of  us  here 
to  do  all  the  "confidently  hopin' "  that's  needed. 
What  you  got  to  do  is  to  git  busy  with  them  pills 
an'  make  him  well,'  I  says,  'or  quit  an'  let  someone 
take  holt  that  kin.'"  The  man  paused  and  re- 
garded the  woman  seriously.  "What  I'm  gittin' 
at  is  this:  If  this  here  doc  ain't  got  confidence 
enough  in  his  own  dope  to  back  it  with  a  bet,  it's 
time  we  got  holt  of  one  that  will.  Now,  ma'am, 
you  better  let  me  send  one  of  Jack  Pierce's  kids  to 
town  to  see  Len  Christie  an'  tell  him  to  git  the  best 


The  Samuelsons  235 

doc  out  here  they  is.  I'll  write  a  note  to  Len  on 
the  side  an'  tell  him  to  tell  the  doc  he  kin  about 
double  his  wages,  'cause  the  rest  of  the  boys  feels 
just  like  I  do,  an'  we'll  all  bet  agin  him  so't  it'll 
be  worth  his  while  to  make  a  good  job  of  it."  He 
paused,  awaiting  permission  to  carry  out  his  plan. 

The  little  woman  explained  gravely:  " Doctors 
never  bet  on  their  cases,  Bill.  It  isn't  that  they 
won't  back  their  judgment.  But  because  it  isn't 
considered  proper.  Doctor  Mallory  is  doing  all 
any  mortal  man  can  do.  He's  a  wonderfully 
good  doctor,  and  it  was  Len  Christie,  himself, 
that  recommended  him." 

The  cowboy's  eyes  lighted:  "It  was?  Well, 
then,  mebbe  he's  all  right.  I  never  had  no  time  fer 
preachers  'til  I  know'd  Len.  But,  what  he  says 
goes  with  me — he's  square.  I  don't  go  much  on 
no  doctor,  though.  They're  all  right  fer  women, 
mebbe,  an'  kids.  I  believe  all  the  Old  Man  needs 
right  now  to  fix  him  up  good  as  ever  is  a  big  stiff 
jolt  of  whisky  an'  bitters."  The  cowboy  rode 
away,  muttering  and  shaking  his  head,  but  not 
until  he  was  well  out  of  sight  round  the  corner  of 
the  house  did  the  little  woman  with  the  gray  hair 
smile. 

"I  hope  Doctor  Mallory  will  understand,"  she 


236  The  Gold  Girl 

said,  a  trifle  anxiously,  "I  have  some  rather  trying 
experiences  with  my  boys,  and  if  Bill  has  gone  and 
insulted  the  doctor  I'll  have  to  get  Jack  Pierce  to 
go  to  town  and  explain." 

"This  Bill  seems  to  just  adore  Mr.  Samuelson," 
ventured  Patty.  "Why  his  voice  was  almost — 
almost  reverent  when  he  said  'the  Old  Man.'  " 

The  little  lady  nodded:  "Yes,  Bill  thinks  there's 
no  one  like  him.  You  see,  Bill  shot  a  man,  one 
day  when — he  was  not  quite  himself.  Over  in  the 
Blackfoot  country,  it  was,  and  Vil  Holland  knew 
the  facts  in  the  case,  and  he  rode  over  and  told  Mr. 
Samuelson  all  about  it,  and  they  both  went  and 
talked  it  over  with  the  prosecuting  attorney,  and 
with  old  Judge  Nevers,  with  the  result  that  they 
agreed  to  give  the  boy  a  chance.  So  Mr.  Samuel- 
son brought  him  here.  That  was  five  years  ago. 
Bill  is  foreman  of  this  outfit  now,  and  our  other 
three  riders  are  boys  that  were  headed  the  same 
way  Bill  was.  Vil  Holland  brought  one  of  them 
over,  and  Bill  and  Mr.  Samuelson  picked  up  the 
other  two — and,  if  I  do  say  it  myself,"  she  declared, 
proudly,  "there  isn't  an  outfit  in  Montana  that 
can  boast  a  more  capable  or  loyal,  or  a  straighter 
quartet  of  riders  than  this  one." 

As  Patty  listened  she  understood  something  of 


The  Samuelsons  237 

what  was  behind  the  words  of  Thompson  and  Len 
Christie,  when  they  had  spoken  that  day  of  "Old 
Man  "  Samuelson.  But,  there  was  something  she 
did  not  understand.  And  that  something  was — 
Vil  Holland.  Everybody  liked  him,  everybody 
spoke  well  of  him,  and  apparently  everybody  but 
herself  trusted  him  implicitly.  And  yet,  to  her 
own  certain  knowledge,  he  did  carry  a  jug,  he  did 
follow  her  about  the  hills,  and  he  did  tell  her  to  her 
face  that  when  she  found  her  father's  claim  she 
would  have  a  race  on  her  hands,  and  that  if  she 
were  beaten  she  would  have  to  be  satisfied  with 
what  she  would  get. 

But  Vil  Holland,  his  comings  and  his  goings  were 
soon  forgotten  in  the  absorbing  interest  with  which 
Patty  listened  as  her  little  gray-haired  hostess  re- 
counted incidents  and  horrors  of  the  Indian  up- 
rising, the  first  sporadic  depredations,  the  coming  of 
the  troops,  and  finally  the  forcing  of  the  belliger- 
ent tribes  onto  their  reservations. 

It  had  been  Patty's  intention  to  ride  back  to  her 
cabin  in  the  evening,  but  Mrs.  Samuelson  would 
not  hear  of  it.  And,  indeed  the  girl  did  not  insist, 
for  despite  the  fact  that  she  had  become  thoroughly 
accustomed  to  her  surroundings,  the  anticipation 
of  a  dinner  prepared  and  served  by  the  highly  effi- 


238  The  Gold  Girl 

cient  Wong  Yie,  in  the  tastefully  appointed  dining 
room,  with  its  real  silver  and  china,  proved  suffi- 
ciently attractive  to  overcome  even  her  impatience 
to  begin  the  working  out  of  her  father's  map.  And 
the  realization  fully  justified  the  anticipation. 
When  the  meal  was  finished  the  two  women  had 
talked  the  long  evening  away  before  the  cheerful 
blaze  of  the  wood  fire,  and  when  at  last  she  was 
shown  to  her  room,  the  girl  retired  to  luxuriate  in 
a  real  bed  of  linen  sheets  and  a  box  mattress. 


CHAPTER  XV 


THE  HORSE   RAID 


Patty  did  not  know  how  long  she  had  slept  when 
she  awoke,  tense  and  listening,  sitting  bolt  upright 
in  bed.  Moonlight  flooded  the  room  through  the 
windows  thrown  wide  to  admit  the  chill  night  air. 
Beyond  the  valley  floor,  green  with  the  luxuriant 
second  crop  of  alfalfa,  she  could  see  the  mountains 
looming  dim  and  mysterious  in  the  half-light. 

The  whole  world  seemed  silent  as  the  grave — and 
yet,  something  must  have  awakened  her.  She 
shuddered,  partly  at  the  chill  that  struck  at  her 
thinly  clad  shoulders,  and  partly  at  the  recollec- 
tion of  some  of  the  scenes  those  selfsame  mountains 
had  witnessed,  during  the  uprisings,  and  which  her 
hostess  had  so  vividly  recounted.  The  girl  smiled, 
and  gazing  toward  the  mountains,  pictured  long 
lines  of  naked  horsemen  stealing  silently  into  the 
valley.  She  started  violently.  Through  the  open 
window  came  sounds,  the  muffled  thud  of  hoofs 

239 


240  The  Gold  Girl 

upon  the  soft  ground,  the  low  rattle  of  bit-chains 
and  spur-rowels,  and  the  creak  of  saddle  leather. 
There  were  horsemen  in  the  valley,  and  the  horse- 
men were  passing  almost  beneath  her  windows — 
and  they  were  moving  stealthily. 

For  a  moment  her  heart  raced  madly — the  fancy 
of  those  conjured  horsemen,  and  then  the  myste- 
rious sounds  from  the  night  that  were  not  fancy, 
combined  in  just  the  right  proportion  to  overcome 
her  with  a  momentary  terror.     She  realized  that 
the  sounds  were  passing — growing  fainter,   and 
leaping  from  the  bed,  rushed  to  the  window  and 
peered   out.     Only   silence — profound,   unbroken 
silence,  and  the  moonlight.     In  vain  she  strained 
her  ears  to  catch  a  repetition  of  the  faint  sounds, 
and  in  vain  she  peered  into  the  dark  shadows  cast 
by  the  bunk  house  and  the  pole  horse-corral.     Her 
windows  commanded  the  eastern  wall  of  the  valley, 
and  its  upper  reaches.     Had  there  actually  been 
horsemen,  or  were  the  sounds  part  of  her  vivid 
vision  of  the  long  ago?     "No,"   she  muttered, 
"those  sounds  were  real,"  and  she  leaned  far  out 
of  the  window  in  a  vain  effort  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the   trail   that    led   down   the    creek    toward 
Pierce's. 

For  some  time  she  remained  at  the  window  and 


The  Horse  Raid  241 

then,  shivering,  crept  back  to  bed,  where  she  lay 
speculating  upon  the  identity  of  these  horsemen 
who  passed  in  the  night.  She  knew  that  a  horse 
raid  had  been  expected.  Could  these  raiders  have 
had  the  audacity  to  pass  through  the  very  dooryard 
of  the  ranch,  knowing  as  they  must  have  known, 
that  four  armed  and  determined  cowboys  occupied 
the  bunk  house? 

And  who  were  these  raiders?  At  Thompson's 
she  had  heard  Monk  Bethune' s  name  mentioned 
in  connection  with  possible  horse- thieving.  Be- 
thune  had  spoken  of  hurried  trips,  "to  the  north- 
ward." She  remembered  that  upon  the  occasion 
of  their  first  meeting,  she  had  heard  him  dickering 
with  Watts  for  the  rent  of  his  horse  pasture,  and 
she  recollected  the  incident  of  the  changed  name. 
Then,  again,  only  a  few  days  before,  she  had  parted 
with  him  when  he  struck  off  the  trail  to  the  east- 
ward with  the  excuse  that  he  was  going  over  onto 
the  east  slope  on  a  matter  having  to  do  with  some 
horses.  Bill  had  mentioned,  in  talking  to  Mrs. 
Samuelson,  that  he  had  been  riding  through  the 
horses  on  the  east  slope.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  the  suave  Bethune  was  a  horse-thief?  On  the 
other  hand,  Bethune  had  openly  hinted  that  Vil 
Holland  was  a  horse- thief — and  yet,  these  other 


242  The  Gold  Girl 

people  all  believed  that  he  was  persistently  on  the 
trail  of  the  horse-thieves. 

For  a  long  time  she  lay  thinking,  guessing,  try- 
ing to  recall  little  scraps  of  evidence  that  would 
bear  upon  the  case.  Again,  a  slight  sound  brought 
her  to  a  sitting  posture.  This  time  it  was  the 
opening  of  a  door  across  the  hall  from  her  room. 
The  sound  was  followed  by  the  soft  padding  of 
slippered  feet  in  the  hall,  the  low  tapping,  evidently 
at  another  door,  a  few  low- voiced  words,  and  a  re- 
turn of  the  padding  steps.  A  few  moments  later 
other  steps  hurried  along  the  hall  past  her  door 
and  rapidly  descended  the  stairs.  Patty  heard  the 
opening  of  an  outside  door,  and  once  more  stealing 
to  the  window  she  saw  the  Chinaman  hurry  across 
the  moonlit  yard  to  the  bunk  house  and  throw 
open  the  door.  He  entered  to  emerge  a  moment 
later  and  rush  to  the  horse-corral,  where  he  peered 
between  the  poles  for  a  moment  and  then  made  his 
way  swiftly  back  to  the  house. 

Without  lighting  the  lamp  Patty  dressed  hur- 
riedly. Was  the  Samuelson  ranch  a  place  of  mys- 
tery? What  was  the  meaning  of  the  light  sounds 
— the  soft  tramp  of  horses,  and  the  padding  of  feet 
upon  the  stairs  ?  The  footsteps  paused  at  the  door 
across  the  hall.     There  followed  a  whispered  col- 


The  Horse  Raid  243 

loquy  and  the  steps  retreated  rapidly  to  the  lower 
regions.  Patty  opened  her  door  to  see  Mrs.  Sam- 
uelson,  her  face  expressing  the  deepest  agitation, 
and  one  thin  hand  catching  together  the  folds  of  a 
lavender  kimono. 

' '  What  is  the  matter  ? ' '  asked  the  girl.  '  *  What 
has  happened?" 

The  old  lady  closed  the  door  from  beyond  which 
came  sounds  of  heavy  breathing.  ' '  I  am  afraid  he 
is  worse, ' '  she  whispered.  ' '  Wong  Yie  went  to  the 
bunk  house  to  send  the  boys  for  the  doctor  and  for 
Mrs.  Pierce,  and  he  says  they  are  gone!  Their 
horses  are  not  in  the  corral.  I  don't  understand 
it,"  she  cried.  "I  told  them  not  to  go  away. 
They  know,  that  with  my  husband  sick,  we  are 
in  momentary  danger  from  the  horse-thieves,  and 
they  know  that  their  place  is  right  here." 

"You  told  Bill  to  stay  until  he  heard  from  Vil 
Holland,"  reminded  Patty.  "Maybe  they  heard 
from  him,  and  left  without  disturbing  you." 

"That's  it,  of  course!"  cried  the  woman.  "I 
ought  to  have  known  I  could  trust  them.  But,  for 
a  moment  it  seemed  that — "  She  stopped  abrupt- 
ly and  glanced  anxiously  into  the  girl's  face,  "But 
what  in  the  world  will  we  do?  Wong  Yie  can't 
ride  a  step,  and  if  he  could,  I  need  him  here " 


244  The  Gold  Girl 

"111  ride  to  Pierce's!"  exclaimed  Patty.  "And 
get  Mr.  Pierce  to  go  for  the  doctor,  and  bring  Mrs. 
Pierce  back  with  me.  My  horse  is  in  the  corral, 
and  I  can  get  down  there  in  no  time." 

"Oh,  can  you?  Will  you?  And  you  are  not 
afraid — alone  at  night  in  the  hills?  Under  any 
other  circumstances  I  wouldn't  think  of  letting 
you  do  it,  child — especially  with  the  horse-thieves 
about.     But,  it  seems  the  only  way " 

* '  Of  course  it 's  the  only  way !  And  I  'm  not  a  bit 
afraid." 

Hurrying  to  the  corral,  Patty  saddled  her  horse, 
and  a  few  moments  later  swung  into  the  trail  that 
led  down  the  creek.  She  glanced  at  her  watch ;  it 
was  one  o'clock.  The  moon  floated  high  in  the 
heavens  and  the  valley  was  almost  as  light  as  day. 
Urging  her  horse  into  a  run,  she  found  a  wild  ex- 
hilaration in  riding  through  the  night,  splashing 
across  shallows  and  shooting  across  short  level 
stretches  to  plunge  through  the  water  again. 

After  what  seemed  an  interminable  wait.  Pierce 
himself  appeared  at  the  door  in  answer  to  her 
persistent  pounding.  Patty  thought  he  eyed  her 
curiously  as  he  stood  aside  and  motioned  her  into 
the  kitchen.  Very  deliberately  he  lighted  the 
lamp  and  listened  in  silence  until  she  had  finished. 


The  Horse  Raid  245 

Then,  coolly,  he  eyed  her  from  top  to  toe:  "  Tears 
to  me  I've  saw  you  before, ' '  he  announced.  * '  Over 
on  the  trail,  a  while  back.  An*  you  was  a-ridin' 
with — Monk  Bethune." 

"Well?"  asked  the  girl,  angered  by  the  man's 
tone. 

"Well,"  mocked  Pierce.  "So  to-night's  the 
night  yer  figgerin'  on  pullin'  the  raid,  is  it?" 

"  I  'm  figuring  on  pulling  the  raid !  What  do  you 
mean?" 

"I  mean  you,  an'  Bethune,  an*  yer  gang.  You 
be'n  up  a-spottin'  the  lay,  so's  to  tip  'em  off,  an* 
now  you  come  down  here  an'  tell  me  the  Old  Man's 
worst  so's  I'll  take  out  to  town  fer  the  doc — an'  one 
less  posse-man  in  the  hills.  Yer  a  pretty  slick 
article,  Miss,  but  it  hain't  a-goin'  to  work." 

Patty  listened,  speechless  with  rage.  When 
the  man  finished  she  found  her  tongue.  "You — 
you  accuse  me  of  being  a — a  horse-thief?"  she 
choked. 

1 '  Yup, ' '  answered  the  man.  ' '  That's  it — an'  not 
so  fur  off,  neither.  Don't  you  s'pose  I  know  that  if 
the  Old  Man  was  worst  one  of  his  own  boys  would 
of  be'n  a  f oggin'  it  fer  town  hisself  ?  I 'd  ort  to  take 
an'  lock  you  up  in  the  root  cellar  an'  turn  you  over 
to  Vil  Holland,  but  I  guess  if  we  get  all  the  he  ones 


246  The  Gold  Girl 

out  of  yer  gang  we  kin  leave  you  loose.  'Tain't 
likely  you  could  run  off  no  horses  single-handed.' ' 

A  woman  whose  appearance  showed  an  evident 
hasty  toilet  had  stepped  from  an  inner  room,  and 
stood  listening  to  the  man.  Patty  was  about  to 
appeal  to  her  when,  from  the  outside  came  a 
thunder  of  hoofs,  and  suddenly  a  man  burst  into 
the  room.  Patty  recognized  him  as  Bill,  of  the 
Samuelson  ranch.  "Come  on,  Jack,  quick!  Git 
yer  gun,  while  I  slam  the  kak  on  yer  cayuse.  The 
raid's  on,  they've  cut  out  a  bunch  of  them  three- 
an'  four-year-olds  offen  the  east  slope  an'  they're 
a-foggin'  'em  off." 

' '  Bill !  Oh,  Bill ! "  cried  the  girl,  in  desperation. 
But  the  man  had  plunged  toward  the  corral,  fol- 
lowed by  Pierce,  buckling  on  his  cartridge  belt  as 
he  ran.  A  moment  later  both  men  were  in  the 
saddle,  and  the  sound  of  pounding  hoofs  grew  far 
away. 

In  tears,  Patty  turned  to  the  woman.  "Oh, 
why  couldn't  he  have  believed  me?"  she  cried. 
"He  thinks  I'm  one  of  that  detestable  gang  of 
thieves!  But,  you — surely  you  don't  think  I'm  a 
horse-thief  ? "  In  broken  sentences  she  related  the 
facts  to  the  woman,  and  finished  by  begging  her 
to  go  up  to  the  Samuelson  ranch.    "I'll  ride  on  to 


The  Horse  Raid  247 

town  for  the  doc  tor  myself ! "  she  exclaimed .  ' '  And 
surely  you  can  do  that  much  for  your  neighbor.' * 

"Do  that  much  fer  'em!"  the  woman  exclaimed. 
"I  reckon  they  ain't  nothin'  I  wouldn't  do  fer 
them.  Mebbe  Jack's  right,  an'  mebbe  he's  wrong. 
I've  saw  him  be  both,  'fore  now.  Anyways,  it 
ain't  a-goin'  to  do  Samuelsons  no  harm,  nor  the 
horse-thieves  no  good  fer  me  to  go  up  there.  You 
hit  the  trail  fer  town,  an'  I'll  ride  up  the  crick." 
The  woman  cut  short  the  girl's  thanks.  "You 
better  take  straight  on  down  Porky  'til  it  crosses 
the  trail,"  she  advised.  "It's  a  little  longer  but 
you  won't  git  lost  that  way,  an'  chances  is  you 
would  if  I  tried  to  tell  you  the  short  cut.  Thonn> 
sons  is  great  friends  with  Samuelsons,"  called  the 
woman,  as  Patty  mounted.  ' '  Better  change  horses 
there !  Or,  mebbe  Thompson '11  go  on  to  town  fer 
you." 

Below  the  Pierce  ranch  the  trail  was  not  so  good 
but,  unheeding,  the  girl  held  her  horse  to  his  pace. 
In  her  heart  now  was  no  wild  exhilaration  of  moon- 
light, nor  was  there  any  lurking  fear  of  unknown 
horsemen,  only  a  mighty  rage — a  rage  engendered 
by  Pierce's  accusation,  but  which  expanded  with 
each  leap  of  her  horse  until  it  included  Vil  Holland, 
Bethune,  the  Samuelson  cowboys,  and  even  Len 


248  The  Gold  Girl 

Christie  and  the  Samuelsons  themselves — a  sense- 
less, consuming  rage  that  caused  the  blood  to 
throb  hotly  to  her  temples  and  found  vicious  ex- 
pression in  driving  the  rowels  into  her  horse's  sides 
until  the  animal  tore  down  the  rough,  half -lit  trail 
at  a  pace  that  sent  the  loose  stones  flying  from  be- 
neath his  hoofs  in  rattling  volleys. 

Possibly,  it  was  the  rattling  of  loose  stones, 
possibly  her  anger  dulled  her  sensibilities  to  the 
point  where  they  were  incapable  of  taking  note  of 
her  surroundings,  but  the  fact  remains  that  as  she 
approached  the  mouth  of  a  wide  coulee  that  gave 
into  the  valley  from  the  eastward,  she  did  not  hear 
the  rumble  of  hundreds  of  pounding  hoofs  that 
each  second  grew  louder  and  more  ominous,  until 
as  she  reached  the  mouth  of  the  coulee  a  rider  swept 
into  the  valley,  his  horse  straining  every  muscle  to 
keep  ahead  of  the  herd  that  thundered  in  his  wake. 

Apparently  the  horseman  did  not  notice  her,  and 
the  next  moment  Patty  was  engulfed  in  the  herd. 
The  girl  lived  one  wild  moment  of  terror.  In 
front,  behind,  upon  each  side  were  madly  plunging 
horses,  eyes  staring,  mouths  agape  exposing  long 
white  teeth  that  flashed  wickedly  in  the  moonlight, 
manes  tossing  wildly,  and  air  whistling  through 
wide-flaring  nostrils.     On  and  on  they  swept  dowi? 


The  Horse  Raid  249 

the  valley.  The  roar  of  hoofs  rose  to  a  mighty 
crescendo  of  thunder,  above  which,  now  and  then, 
the  terrified  girl  caught  fierce  yells  from  the  flank 
of  the  herd.  So  close  were  the  terrorized  horses 
running  that  it  was  impossible  for  the  girl  to  see 
the  ground  before  her.  Sweating,  plunging  bodies 
surged  against  her  legs  threatening  each  moment 
to  scrape  her  feet  from  the  stirrups.  Gripping 
the  horn  with  both  hands  she  rode  in  a  sort  of 
daze. 

Glancing  over  her  shoulder,  she  caught  an  occa- 
sional flash  of  white  as  the  men  on  the  flanks  waved 
sheets  above  their  heads,  whose  flapping,  fluttering 
folds  urged  the  maddened  horses  into  a  perfect 
frenzy  of  action. 

In  front,  and  a  little  to  one  side  of  Patty,  a  horse 
went  down,  a  big  roan  colt,  and  she  got  one  horrible 
glimpse  of  a  grotesquely  twisted  neck,  and  a  tangle 
of  thrashing  hoofs  as  another  horse  plunged  onto 
his  fallen  comrade.  A  horrible  scream  split  the 
air  as  he,  too,  went  down,  and  the  sudden  side- 
surge  of  the  herd  all  but  unseated  the  clinging  girl. 
In  a  second  it  was  over  and  the  herd  thundered  on. 
Patty  closed  her  eyes,  and  with  white,  tight-pressed 
lips,  wondered  when  her  horse  would  go  down. 
She  pictured  the  bloody,  battered  thing  that  had 


250  The  Gold  Girl 

been  herself,  lying  flattened  and  gruesome,  in  the 
moonlight  when  the  pounding  hoofs  swept  past. 

Time  and  distance  ceased  to  be.  Patty  was 
carried  helplessly  on,  a  part  of  that  frenzied  flood  of 
flesh,  muscles  rigid,  brain  tense — waiting  for  the 
inevitable  moment — the  horrible  moment  that  was 
to  mark  the  climax  of  this  ride  of  horrors.  She 
wondered  if  it  would  hurt,  or  would  merciful  un- 
consciousness come  with  the  first  impact  of  the  fall. 

Suddenly  she  opened  her  eyes.  She  sensed  a 
change  in  the  rumble  of  hoofs.  Horses  surged  to- 
gether and  the  pace  slackened  from  a  wild  rush  to 
a  wilder  thrashing  of  uncertainty.  In  the  fore- 
front a  thin  red  spurt  of  flame  leaped  forth  and 
above  the  pounding  hoofs  rang  the  report  of  a  shot. 
The  leaders  seemed  to  have  stopped  and  the  main 
body  of  the  herd  pressed  and  struggled  against  the 
unyielding  front.  Other  spurts  of  flame  pierced 
the  night,  and  shots  rang  viciously  from  all  sides. 
The  horses  were  milling,  churning,  about  in  a 
huge  maelstrom,  in  which  Patty  found  herself 
being  slowly  forced  to  the  outside  as  the  unencum- 
bered free  horses  crowded  to  the  center  away  from 
the  terrifying  stabs  of  flame  and  the  crack  of  guns. 
She  could  see  a  mounted  form  before  her.  Evi- 
dently it  was  the  man  who  had  ridden  in  the  fore- 


The  Horse  Raid  251 

front  of  the  herd.  The  rider  was  very  close,  now, 
his  horse  keeping  pace  with  her  own  which  had 
nearly  reached  the  outer  rim  of  the  churning  mass 
of  animals.  The  brim  of  his  hat  shadowed  his 
face  but  Patty  could  see  that  the  gauntleted  hand 
held  a  six-gun.  A  shift  of  position  brought  the 
moonlight  full  upon  the  man's  front — upon  a  scarf 
of  robin's-egg  blue  caught  together  at  the  throat 
with  the  polished  tip  of  buffalo  horn.  No  other 
horsemen  were  in  sight,  but  an  occasional  sharp 
report  sounded  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  herd. 
' '  Vil ! ' '  she  screamed.  ' '  Vil  Holland ! "  The  form 
stiffened  in  the  saddle  and  the  girl  caught  the  flash 
of  his  eyes  beneath  the  hat  brim.  The  next  in- 
stant the  gun  had  given  place  to  a  heavy  quirt  in 
his  hand,  his  tall,  rangy  horse  plunged  straight 
toward  her,  the  wild  horses,  crowding  frenziedly  to 
escape  the  blows  as  the  rider  lashed  furiously  to 
the  right  and  to  the  left  as'  he  forced  his  mount 
to  her  side. 

"Good  God!  Girl,  what  are  you  doing  here? 
I  thought  you  were  one  of  them — and  I  nearly — " 
The  man  leaned  suddenly  forward  and  grasped  the 
bit-chain  of  her  bridle.  As  if  knowing  exactly 
what  was  expected  of  them,  side  by  side  the  two 
horses  fought  their  way  free  of  the  herd,  the  big 


252  The  Gold  Girl 

buckskin  with  ears  laid  back,  snapping  viciously 
at  the  crowding  horses.  A  six-gun  roared  twice. 
Patty  felt  a  sudden  brush  of  air  against  her  cheek 
and  the  next  instant  the  two  horses  plunged  down 
the  steep  side  of  a  narrow  ravine.  In  the  bottom 
the  man  released  her  bridle.  "You  stay  here!" 
he  commanded  gruffly. 

"But,  the  Samuelsons!  Mr.  Samuelson  is — " 
The  words  were  drowned  in  a  shower  of  gravel  as 
the  rangy  buckskin  scrambled  up  the  bank  and 
disappeared  over  the  top.  The  rapid  transition 
from  anger  to  terror,  and  from  terror  to  relief, 
proved  too  much  for  the  girl's  nerves  and  she  burst 
into  a  violent  fit  of  sobbing.  The  tears  enraged 
her  and  she  shouted  at  the  top  of  her  voice.  "I 
won't  stay  here! "  but  the  words  sounded  puny  and 
weak,  and  she  knew  that  they  had  not  penetrated 
beyond  the  rim  of  the  ravine.  "I  won't  do  it! 
I  won't  stay  here!"  she  kept  repeating,  the  sen- 
tences broken  by  the  hysterical  sobbing.  Never- 
theless, stay  there  she  did,  until  with  a  mighty 
rumble  of  hoofs  and  a  scattering  volley  of  shots,  the 
horse  herd  swept  northward,  and  when  finally  she 
succeeded  in  gaining  the  upper  level,  the  sounds 
came  to  her  ears  faint  and  far  away. 

Hurriedly  she  glanced  about  her.     What  was 


The  Horse  Raid  253 

that  stretching  to  the  southward,  a  long  ribbon  of 
white  in  the  moonlight?  "The  trail!"  she  cried. 
"The  trail  to  town — and  to  Thompson's!"  Just 
beyond  the  trail,  upon  the  brown-yellow  buffalo 
grass  a  dark  object  lay  motionless.  Patty  stared 
at  it  in  horror.  It  was  the  body  of  a  man.  Her 
first  impulse  was  to  put  spurs  to  her  horse  and  fly 
down  that  long  white  ribbon  of  trail — to  place  dis- 
tance between  herself  and  the  thing  that  lay 
sprawled  upon  the  grass.  Then  a  thought  flashed 
into  her  brain.  Suppose  it  were  he?  Vil  Holland, 
the  man  whom  everybody  trusted — the  man  who 
had  calmly  braved  the  shots  of  the  horse-thieves 
to  rescue  her  from  that  churning  maelstrom  of 
horror. 

Unconsciously,  but  surely,  under  the  influence 
of  those  upon  whose  judgment  she  knew  she  could 
rely,  her  suspicion  and  distrust  of  him  had  weak- 
ened. She  had  half-realized  the  fact  days  ago, 
when  at  thought  of  him  she  found  herself  forced 
to  enumerate  his  apparent  offenses  over  and  over 
again  to  keep  the  distrust  alive.  She  thought  of 
him  now  as  he  had  fought  his  way  to  her,  lashing 
the  infuriated  horses  from  his  path.  He  had  ap- 
peared, somehow — different.  She  closed  her  eyes 
and  clean  cut  as  though  chiseled  upon  her  brain 


254  The  Gold  Girl 

was  the  picture  of  him  as  he  forced  his  way  to  her 
side.  Like  a  flash  the  detail  of  difference  broke 
upon  her — The  jug  was  missing !  And  close  upon 
the  heels  of  the  discovery  came  the  memory  of  the 
strange  thrill  that  had  shot  through  her  as  his  leg 
pressed  hers  when  their  horses  had  been  forced 
together  by  the  milling  herd,  and  the  sense  of  se- 
curity and  well  being  that  replaced  the  terror  in  her 
heart  from  the  moment  she  had  called  his  name. 
A  sudden  indescribable  pain  gripped  her  breast,  as 
though  icy  fingers  reached  up  and  slowly  clutched 
her  heart.  With  staring  eyes  and  breath  coming 
heavily  between  parted  lips,  she  rode  toward  the 
thing  on  the  ground.  As  she  drew  near,  her  horse 
stopped,  sniffing  nervously.  She  attempted  to 
urge  him  forward,  but  he  quivered,  shied  sidewise, 
and,  snorting  his  fear,  circled  the  sprawling  object 
with  nostrils  a-quiver. 

Fighting  a  terrible  dread,  the  girl  forced  her  eyes 
to  focus  upon  the  gruesome  form,  and  the  next 
instant  she  uttered  a  quick  little  cry  of  relief.  The 
man's  hat  had  fallen  off  and  lay  at  some  distance 
from  the  body.  She  could  see  a  shock  of  thick 
black  hair,  and  noticed  that  he  wore  a  cheap  cotton 
shirt  that  had  once  been  white.  There  were  no 
chaps.     One  leg  of  his  blue  overalls  had  rolled  up 


The  Horse  Raid  255 

and  exposed  six  inches  of  bare  skin  which  gleamed 
whitely  in  the  moonlight  above  the  top  of  his  shoe. 
The  sight  sickened,  disgusted  her,  and  whirling 
her  horse  she  dashed  southward  along  the  trail 
forgetting  for  the  moment  the  Samuelsons,  the 
doctor,  and  everything  else  in  a  wild  desire  to  put 
distance  between  herself  and  that  awful  thing  on 
the  ground. 

Not  until  her  horse's  hoofs  rang  upon  the  hard 
rock-  of  the  canyon  floor,  did  Patty  slacken  her 
pace.  Thompson's  was  only  a  few  miles  farther  on. 
It  was  dark  in  the  high  walled  canyon  and  she 
slowed  her  horse  to  a  walk.  He  stopped  to  drink 
in  the  shallow  creek  and  the  girl  glanced  over 
the  back  trail.  Where  was  he  now!  Thundering 
along  with  the  recaptured  horse  herd,  or  following 
the  thieves  in  a  mad  flight  through  the  devious 
fastnesses  of  the  mountains.  Was  it  possible  that 
even  at  this  moment  he  was  lying  upon  the  yellow- 
brown  grass,  or  among  the  broken  rock  fragments 
of  some  coulee,  twisted,  and  shapeless,  and  still — 
like  that  other  who  lay  repulsive  and  ugly,  with  his 
bare  leg  shining  white  in  the  moonlight?  She 
shuddered.  44No,  no,  no!"  she  cried  aloud,  "they 
can't  kill  him.  They 're  cowards — and  he  is  brave!" 
Her  voice  rang  hollow  and  thin  in  the  rocky  chasm, 


256  The  Gold  Girl 

and  she  started  at  the  sound  of  it.  Her  horse 
moved  on,  tongueing  the  bit  contentedly.  "They 
were  right,  and  I  was  wrong,"  she  muttered. 
"And— and,  I'm  glad." 

The  canyon  was  left  behind  and  before  her  the 
trail  wound  among  the  foothills  that  rolled  away 
to  the  open  bench.  She  noticed  that  the  moon 
had  sunk  behind  the  mountains,  yet  it  was  not  dark. 
Glancing  toward  the  east,  she  realized  that  it  was 
morning.  She  urged  her  horse  into  a  lope,  and 
reached  Thompson's  just  as  the  ranchman  and  his 
two  hands  were  starting  for  the  barn. 

"Well,  dog  my  cats,  if  it  ain't  Miss  Sinclair!" 
exclaimed  the  man,  and  stood  silent  for  a  second 
as  if  trying  to  remember  something.  He  rushed 
toward  her  excitedly.  "You  want  that  horse?" 
he  cried,  and  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  turned 
to  the  astonished  ranch  hands:  "You,  Mike, 
throw  the  shell  onto  Lightnin',  an'  git  him  out  here, 
an'  don't  lose  no  time  about  it,  neither ! 

"Pete,  git  that  rifle  an'  lay  along  the  trail !  An' 
if  anyone  comes  a-foggin'  along  towards  town 
shoot  his  horse  out  from  in  under  him!  Never 
mind  chawin' — you  git!  Shoot  his  horse,  an'  I'll 
pay  the  bill.  Any  skunk  that  would  try  fer  to  beat 
a  lady  out  of  her  claim  ain't  a-goin'  to  expect 


The  Horse  Raid  257 

nothin'  but  what  he  gits  around  this  outfit.  An' 
say,  Pete — if  it  should  be  Monk  Bethune — an' 
you  happen  to  shoot  a  leetle  high  fer  to  hit  the 
horse — don't  worry  none — git,  now! 

"You  come  right  along  of  me,  an'  git  a  snack 
from  Miz  T.  while  Mike's  a-saddlin'  up.  It's  a 
long  drag  to  town,  even  on  Lightnin',  an'  you  ain't 
et  yet.  If  the  coffee  ain't  hot,  you  can  wait  a 
couple  o'  minutes — that  there  Pete — he  won't  let 
nothin'  git  by — he  kin  cut  a  sage  hen's  head  off 
twenty  rod  with  that  rifle!"  Patty  had  made 
several  unsuccessful  attempts  to  speak — attempts 
to  which  Thompson  paid  no  attention  whatever. 
At  last,  she  managed  to  make  him  understand. 
"No,  no!  It  isn't  the  claim,  Mr.  Thompson — 
but,  let  him  saddle  the  horse  just  the  same. 
Mr.  Samuelson  is  worse  and  I'm  riding  for  the 
doctor." 

"You!"  exclaimed  the  astonished  Thompson. 
"What's  the  matter  with  Bill  or  some  of  Samuel- 
son's  riders?" 

"They're  after  the  horse-thieves.  They  ran  off 
a  lot  of  Mr.  Samuelson's  horses  last  night,  and 
they're  after  them.  And  they  caught  them,  and 
had  a  battle,  and  I  was  in  it,  and  there  is  a  dead 
man  lying  back  there  beside  the  trail."     Patty 


258  The  Gold  Girl 

talked  rapidly,  and  Thompson  stared  open- 
mouthed. 

"Run  off  Samuelson's  horses — battle — dead 
man — you  was  in  it!"  he  repeated,  in  bewilder- 
ment. "Who  run  'em  off?  Where's  Vil  Holland? 
Who's  dead?" 

"I  don't  know  who's  dead.  A  horse-thief,  I 
guess.  And  Vil  Holland's  with  them — with  the 
Samuelson  cowboys  and  that  horrid  Pierce,  and 
that's  why  I  had  to  ride  for  the  doctor — because 
the  cowboys  were  with  Vil  Holland,  and  Pierce 
thought  I  was  one  of  the  horse-thieves." 

"If  you  know  what  you're  talkin'  about  it's 
more'n  what  I  do,"  sighed  Thompson,  resignedly, 
as  the  girl  concluded  the  somewhat  muddled  ex- 
planation. "If  the  raid's  come  off,  why  wasn't 
I  in  on  it — an'  me  keepin'  Lightnin'  up  an'  ready 
fer  it's  goin'  on  three  months?  They's  a  thing  or 
two  I  do  know,  though.  For  one,  you've  rode  fer 
enough."  He  called  to  Pete,  who,  rifle  in  hand, 
was  making  for  the  trail.  ' '  Hey,  Pete,  come  back 
here  with  that  gun,  an'  quick  as  Mike  gits  the  hull 
cinched  onto  Lightnin',  you  fork  him  an'  hightail 
fer  town  an'  fetch  Doc  Mallory  out  to  Samuelson's. 
Tell  him  the  Old  Man's  worse.  Better  fetch  Len 
Christie  along,  too.     If  there's  a  dead  man,  e\ 


The  Horse  Raid  259 

if  he's  a  horse-thief,  it's  better  he  was  buried 
accordin'  to  the  book.  Take  Miss  Sinclair's  horse 
to  the  stable  an'  tell  Mike  to  onsaddle  him  an' 
give  him  a  feed."  He  turned  to  Patty:  "You 
come  along  in  an'  rest  up  'til  Miz  T.  gits  breakfast 
ready.  Then  when  you've  et,  you  kin  begin  at 
the  beginnin'  an'  tell  what's  be'n  a-goin'  on  in  the 
hills." 

A  couple  of  hours  later  when  Patty  concluded 
her  detailed  narrative,  Thompson  leaned  back  in 
his  chair.  ' '  I  got  a  crow  to  pick  with  Vil  Holland, 
all  right,  fer  not  lettin'  me  in  on  that  there  raid." 

"Maybe  he  didn't  have  time,"  suggested  the 
girl,  and  surpressed  a  desire  to  smile  at  the  readiness 
with  which  she  sprang  to  the  defense  of  her  "guard- 
ian devil  of  the  hills." 

Protesting  that  she  needed  no  rest  after  her 
night  of  wild  adventure,  Patty  refused  the  pressing 
invitation  of  the  Thompsons  to  remain  at  the  ranch, 
and  mounting  her  horse,  headed  for  the  cabin  on 
Monte's  Creek. 

Once  through  the  canyon,  she  turned  abruptly 
into  the  hills  and  as  her  horse,  unguided,  topped 
low  divides,  and  threaded  mile  after  mile  of  narrow 
valleys,  her  thoughts  wandered  from  the  all-ab- 
sorbing topic  of  her  father's  location,  to  the  man 


260  The  Gold  Girl 

for  whom  she  had  so  recently  experienced  such  a 
signal  revulsion  of  feeling.  "How  could  I  ever 
have  been  deceived  by  that  disgusting  Monk  Be- 
thune?"  she  muttered.  "Especially  after  he 
warned  me  against  him.  It's  a  wonder  I  couldn't 
have  seen  him  for  the  sleek  oily  devil  that  he  is. 
I  must  have  been  crazy."  She  shuddered  at  the 
recollection  of  that  day  in  the  little  valley  when  he 
boldly  made  love  to  her.  "It's  just  blind  luck 
that — that  something  awful  didn't  happen.  I 
could  see  the  lurking  devil  in  his  eyes !  And  I  saw 
it  again,  when  he  sneered  at  Mr.  Christie.  And 
when  Pierce  showed  very  plainly  what  he  thought 
of  him,  he  cursed  everybody  in  the  hills,  and  then 
offered  his  glaringly  false  explanation  as  to  why 
people  hate  and  distrust  him. ' '  At  the  top  of  a  low 
divide,  she  turned  her  horse  into  a  valley  that  was 
not,  by  any  means,  the  most  direct  route  to  the 
little  cabin  on  Monte's  Creek.  A  half  hour  later 
she  came  out  onto  the  plateau,  upon  the  edge  of 
which  Vil  Holland's  little  tent  nestled  against  its 
towering  rock  fragment. 

For  just  an  instant  she  hesitated,  then,  blushing, 
rode  boldly  across  the  open  space  toward  the  little 
patch  of  white  that  showed  through  the  scrub  tim- 
ber.    Pulling  up  before  the  tent  door  the  girl 


The  Horse  Raid  261 

glanced  about  her.  Everything  was  in  its  place. 
Her  eyes  rested  approvingly  upon  the  well-scoured 
cooking  utensils  that  hung  in  an  orderly  row. 
Evidently  the  camp  had  not  been  used  the  night 
before.  She  drew  of!  her  glove  and,  leaning  over, 
felt  the  blankets  that  were  thrown  over  the  ridge- 
pole. They  were  still  wet  with  the  heavy  dew,  and 
the  dampened  ashes  showed  that  no  fire  had  been 
built  that  morning.  ' '  Oh,  where  is  he  ? "  whispered 
the  girl,  glancing  wildly  about,  "  Surely,  he  has  had 
time  to  reach  here — if  he's — all  right."  After  a 
few  moments  of  silence  she  laughed  nervously: 
"He's  all  right,"  she  assured  herself  with  forced 
cheerfulness.  ' '  Of  course,  he  wouldn't  return  here 
right  away.  He  probably  had  to  help  drive  those 
horses  back,  or — or  help  bury  that  man,  or  some- 
thing. I  wonder  what  he  thinks  of  me?  Pierce 
will  tell  him  his  suspicions,  and  then — finding  me 
mixed  in  with  those  horses — he'll  think  I've 
'thrown  in'  with  Bethune,  as  he  would  say.  I 
must  see  him.     I  must!" 

Deciding  to  return  later  in  the  day,  Patty  headed 
her  horse  for  the  divide  and  soon  found  herself  at 
the  much  trampled  notch  in  the  hills.  For  some 
moments  she  sat  staring  down  at  the  ground. 
She  glanced  toward  the  cabin  that  showed  so  dis- 


262  The  Gold  Girl 

tinctly  in  the  valley  below.  ■ '  He  certainly  watches 
from  here,"  she  mused.  "And  not  just  occasion- 
ally either."  Suddenly,  she  straightened  in  her 
saddle,  and  her  eyes  glowed :  ' '  I  wonder  if — if  he 
has  been  watching — Monk  Bethune?  Watching 
to  see  that  no  harm  comes  to — me?  Oh,  if  I  only 
knew — if  I  only  knew  the  real  meaning  of  this 
trampled  grass!"  Resolutely,  she  gathered  up 
her  reins.  "I  will  know!1'  she  muttered."  And 
I'll  know  before  very  long,  too.  That  is,  I  hope 
I  will,"  she  qualified,  as  the  bay  cayuse  began  to 
pick  his  way  carefully  down  the  steep  descent  to 
Monte 's  Creek. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


PATTY   FINDS   A   GLOVE 


Dismounting  before  her  cabin,  Patty  dropped 
her  reins,  pushed  open  the  door,  and  entered.  Her 
eyes  flew  to  the  little  dressing  table.  The  packet 
was  gone !  With  a  thrill  of  exultation  she  carefully 
inspected  the  room.  Everything  was  exactly  as 
she  had  left  it.  No  blundering  Microby  had  been 
here  during  her  absence,  for  well  she  knew  that 
Microby  could  no  more  have  invaded  the  cabin 
without  leaving  traces  of  her  visit  than  she  could 
have  flown  to  the  moon.  It  was  midday.  She 
had  intended  to  rest  when  she  reached  the  cabin, 
but  her  impatience  to  establish  once  for  all  the 
identity  of  the  cunning  prowler  dispelled  her  weari- 
ness, and  after  a  hurried  luncheon,  she  was  once 
more  in  the  saddle.  "  We've  both  earned  a  good 
rest,  old  fellow,"  she  confided  to  her  horse,  as  he 
threaded  the  coulee  she  had  marked  I  NW,  "but 
it's  only  six  or  seven  miles,  and  we  simply  must 

263 


264  The  Gold  Girl 

know  who  it  is  that  has  been  calling  on  us  so  per- 
sistently. And  when  I  find  daddy's  mine  and  have 
just  oodles  of  money,  I'm  going  to  make  it  up  to 
you  for  working  you  so  hard.  You're  going  to 
have  a  nice,  big,  light,  roomy  box  stall,  and  a  great 
big  grassy  pasture  with  a  creek  running  through  it, 
and  you're  going  to  have  oats  three  times  a  day,  and 
you're  never  going  to  have  to  work  any  more,  and 
every  day  I'll  saddle  you  myself  and  we'll  take  a 
ride  just  for  fun." 

Having  disposed  of  her  horse's  future  in  this 
eminently  satisfactory  manner,  the  girl  fell  to 
planning  her  own.  She  would  build  a  big  house 
and  live  in  Middleton,  and  fairly  flaunt  her  gold  in 
the  faces  of  those  who  had  scoffed  at  her  father — 
no,  she  hated  Middleton !  She  would  go  there  once 
in  a  while,  to  visit  Aunt  Rebecca,  but  mainly  to 
show  the  narrow,  hide-bound  natives  what  they 
had  missed  by  not  backing  her  father  with  a  few  of 
their  miserable  dollars.  She  would  live  in  New 
York — in  Washington — in  Los  Angeles.  No,  she 
would  live  right  here  in  the  hills — the  hills  that 
daddy  had  loved,  and  whose  secret  he  had  wrested 
from  their  silent  embrace.  And  when  she  tired 
of  the  hills  she  would  travel.  Not  the  slightest 
doubt  as  to  her  ability  to  locate  her  father's  claim 


Patty  Finds  a  Glove  265 

assailed  her,  now  that  she  had  learned  to  read 
his  map. 

It  was  wonderfully  good  to  be  alive.  Her  glance 
traveled  from  the  tiny  creek  whose  shallow  waters 
purled  and  burbled  about  her  horse's  feet,  to  the 
high-flung  peaks  of  the  mountains,  their  loftier 
reaches  rearing  naked  and  craggy  above  the  dark 
green  girdle  of  pines.  Slowly  and  majestically, 
hardly  more  than  a  speck  against  the  blue,  an  eagle 
soared.  It  was  a  good  world — courage  and  per- 
severence  made  things  work  out  right.  It  was 
cowardly  to  despair — to  become  disheartened. 
She  would  find  her  father's  mine — but,  first  she 
would  prove  that  Bethune  was  a  scoundrel  of  the 
deepest  dye.  And  she  would  prove,  she  admitted 
to  herself  she  wanted  to  prove,  that  Vil  Holland 
was  all  his  friends  believed  him  to  be.  But,  she 
blushed  with  shame — what  must  he  think  of  her  ? 
Of  her  defense  of  Bethune,  of  her  deliberate  rude- 
ness, and  worst  of  all,  of  her  night  ride  with  the 
horse-thieves  ?  He  knew  she  had  suspected  him — 
had  even  accused  him.  Would  he  ever  regard  her 
as  other  than  a  silly  fool?  Vividly  she  pictured 
him  as  he  had  looked  lashing  his  way  to  her  through 
the  wildly  crowding  horse  herd,  determined,  cap- 
able, masterful — and  wondered  vaguely  what  her 


266  The  Gold  Girl 

answer  would  have  been  had  he  made  love  to  her 
as  Bethune  had  done?  She  smiled  at  the  thought 
of  Vil  Holland,  the  unsmiling,  the  outspoken,  the 
self-sufficient  Vil  Holland  making  love! 

Upon  the  summit  of  a  high  ridge  she  paused  and 
gazed  down  into  the  little  valley  where  she  had 
located  the  false  claim.  A  few  moments  more  and 
she  would  know  to  a  certainty  the  identity  of  the 
prowler  who  had  repeatedly  searched  her  cabin. 
Certain  as  she  was  whose  stakes  she  would  find 
marking  the  claim,  it  was  with  a  rapidly  beating 
heart  that  she  urged  her  horse  into  the  valley  and 
across  the  creek  toward  the  rock  wall.  Yes,  there 
was  a  stake!  And  another!  And  there  was  the 
plot  of  ground  she  had  laboriously  broken  at  the 
foot  of  the  wall.  She  swung  from  the  saddle  and 
examined  the  spot.  The  rock  fragments  she  had 
selected  from  her  father's  samples  were  gone !  And 
now  to  find  the  notice!  As  she  turned  to  search 
for  the  other  stakes,  her  glance  rested  upon  an 
object  that  held  her  rooted  in  her  tracks.  For  a 
moment  her  heart  stopped  beating  as  she  stared 
at  the  little  patch  of  gray  buckskin  that  lay  limp 
and  neglected  where  it  had  fallen.  Slowly  she 
walked  to  it,  stooped,  and  recovered  it  from  the 
ground.     It  was  a  gauntleted  riding  glove — Vil 


Patty  Finds  a  Glove  267 

Holland's.  She  could  not  be  mistaken,  she  had 
seen  that  glove  upon  the  hand  of  its  owner  too 
many  times,  with  its  deep  buckskin  fringe,  and  the 
horseshoe  embroidered  in  red  and  green  silk  upon 
its  back. 

For  a  long  time  she  stared  at  the  green  and  red 
horseshoe.  So  it  was  Vil  Holland,  after  all,  and 
not  Monk  Bethune,  who  had  systematically 
searched  her  cabin.  Vil  Holland,  who  had  watched 
continually  from  his  notch  in  the  hills.  She  had 
been  right  in  the  first  place,  and  the  others  had 
been  wrong.  Everybody  disliked  Bethune,  and 
disliking  him,  had  attributed  to  him  all  the  crooked- 
ness of  the  hill  country,  and  all  the  time,  under 
their  very  noses,  Vil  Holland  was  the  real  plotter — 
and  they  liked  him!  She  could  see  it  all,  now — 
how,  with  Bethune  for  the  scapegoat,  he  was 
enabled,  unsuspected,  to  plan  and  carry  out  his 
various  schemes,  and  with  no  possible  chance  of 
detection — for  he  himself  was  the  confidential 
employee  of  the  ranchmen — the  man  whose  busi- 
ness it  was  to  put  an  end  to  the  lawlessness  of  the 
hill  country. 

Patty  was  surprised  that  she  was  not  angry. 
Indeed,  she  was  not  conscious  of  any  emotion. 
She  realized,  as  she  stood  there  holding  the  gaily 


268  The  Gold  Girl 

embroidered  glove  in  her  hand,  that  the  rapture 
the  gladness  of  mere  existence  had  left  her,  and 
that  where  only  a  few  minutes  before,  her  heart 
had  throbbed  with  the  very  joy  of  living,  it  now 
seemed  like  a  thing  of  weight,  whose  heaviness  op- 
pressed her.  She  felt  strangely  alone  and  helpless. 
She  glanced  about  her.  The  sun  still  shone  on  the 
green  pines  and  the  sparkling  waters  of  the  creek, 
and  above  the  high-tossed  crags  the  eagle  still 
circled,  but  the  thrill  of  joy  in  these  things  was 
gone.  Slowly  she  turned  and,  still  holding  the 
glove,  mounted,  and  headed  for  the  cabin  on 
Monte's  Creek. 

At  the  door  she  unsaddled  her  horse,  hobbled 
him,  and  turned  him  loose.  She  realized  that  she 
was  very  tired,  and  threw  herself  down  upon  the 
bunk.  When  she  awoke  the  cabin  was  in  darkness. 
The  door  stood  wide  open  as  she  had  left  it.  For 
a  moment  she  lay  trying  to  collect  her  bewildered 
senses.  Through  the  open  door,  dimly  silhouetted 
against  the  starry  sky,  she  made  out  the  notch  in 
the  valley  rim.  Her  sense  rallied  with  a  rush,  and 
she  started  nervously  as  a  pack  rat  scurried  across 
the  floor  and  paused  upon  the  door  sill  to  peer  in- 
quisitively at  her  with  his  beady  eyes.  Crossing 
the  room,  she  closed  and  barred  the  door,  and 


Patty  Finds  a  Glove  269 

lighted  the  lamp.  It  was  twelve  o'clock.  She 
peered  at  herself  in  the  glass  and  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  anger,  dampened  her  wash-cloth  and 
scrubbed  furiously  at  her  cheek  where,  in  deep 
tracery  appeared  the  perfect  shape  of  a  horsehoe. 

She  was  very  hungry,  and  rummaging  in  the 
cupboard  set  out  a  cold  lunch  which  she  devoured 
to  the  last  crumb.  Then  she  blew  out  the  lamp 
and,  removing  her  riding  boots,  threw  herself  down 
upon  the  bunk  to  think.  She  was  angry  now,  and 
the  longer  she  thought  the  angrier  she  got.  "I 
can  see  it  all  as  plan  as  day,"  she  muttered. 
"There  isn't  anything  he  wouldn't  do!  He  did 
cut  that  pack  sack,  and  he  ran  the  sheep  man  out 
of  the  hills  because  he  knew  it  would  be  dangerous 
for  him  to  have  a  neighbor  that  might  talk.  And 
the  Samuelson  horse  raid!  Of  all  the  diabolical 
plotting !  With  his  outlaw  friends  holding  trusted 
positions  on  the  ranch,  and  old  Mr.  Samuelson  sick 
in  bed!  Oh,  it  was  cleverly  planned!  And  that 
Pierce  was  right  in  with  them.  No  wonder  he 
wanted  to  lock  me  in  his  cellar ! 

"Who,  then,  was  the  man  that  lay  sprawled  by 
the  side  of  the  trail?"  The  girl  shuddered  at  the 
memory  of  the  cheap  cotton  shirt  torn  open  at  the 
throat,  and  the  moonlight  shining  whitely  upon 


270  The  Gold  Girl 

the  bare  leg.  "Some  loyal  rancher,  probably,  who 
dared  to  oppose  the  outlaws.  It's  murder!"  she 
cried  aloud.  "And  yesterday  I  thought  he  was 
watching  up  there  in  the  hills  to  see  that  no  harm 
came  to  me!"  She  laughed — a  hard,  bitter  laugh 
that  held  as  much  of  mirth  as  the  guggle  of  a  tide 
rip.  "But  he's  come  to  the  end  of  his  rope!  I'll 
expose  him!  I'm  not  afraid  of  his  lawless  crew! 
Jle'll  find  out  it  will  take  more  than  rescuing  me 
from  that  herd  of  wild  horses  to  buy  my  silence! 
I'll  ride  straight  to  Samuelson's  ranch  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  from  there  to  Thompson's,  and  I'll  tell 
them  about  his  part  in  the  raid,  and  about  his 
watching  like  a  vulture  from  his  notch  in  the  hills, 
and  about  his  stealing  what  he  thought  was  daddy's 
map,  and  about  his  filing  the  claim.  And  I'll 
show  'em  the  glove  and —  "  She  paused  abruptly : 
"What  a  fool  I  was  to  come  away  without  the 
notice!  That  would  have  proved  it  beyond  any 
doubt,  even  if  he  hasn't  recorded  the  claim!" 
For  a  long  time  she  lay  in  the  darkness  planning  her 
course  for  the  day.  All  thought  of  sleep  had  van- 
ished, and  her  eyes  continually  sought  the  window 
for  signs  of  approaching  light. 

At  the  first  faint  glow  of  dawn  the  girl  caught 
up  her  horse  and  headed  for  the  false  claim.     It 


Patty  Finds  a  Glove  271 

was  but  the  work  of  a  moment  to  locate  the  stake 
to  which  the  notice  was  attached  by  means  of  a  bit 
of  twine.  Removing  the  paper,  she  thrust  it  into 
her  pocket  and  returned  to  the  cabin  where  she  ate 
breakfast  before  starting  for  the  Samuelson  ranch. 
Hurriedly  washing  the  dishes,  she  picked  up  the 
glove  and  thrust  it  into  the  bosom  of  her  shirt, 
and  drawing  the  crumpled  notice  from  her  pocket, 
smoothed  it  out  upon  the  table.  Her  glance 
traveled  rapidly  over  the  penciled  words  to  the 
signature,  and  she  stared  like  one  in  a  dream.  The 
blood  left  her  face.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  passed 
her  hand  slowly  over  the  lids.  She  opened  them, 
and  with  a  nerveless  finger,  touched  the  paper  as  if 
to  make  sure  that  it  was  real.  Then,  very  slowly, 
she  rose  from  her  chair  and  crossing  the  room,  stood 
in  the  doorway  and  gazed  toward  the  notch  in  the 
hills  until  hot  tears  welled  into  her  eyes  and 
blurred  the  distant  skyline.  The  next  moment 
she  was  upon  her  bunk,  where  she  lay  shaken  be- 
tween fits  of  sobbing  and  hysterical  laughter.  She 
drew  the  glove,  with  its  fringed  gauntlet  and  its 
gaudily  embroidered  horseshoe  from  her  shirt  front 
and  ran  her  fingers  along  its  velvety  softness.  Im- 
pulsively, passionately,  she  pressed  the  horseshoe 
to  her  lips,  and  leaping  to  her  feet,  thrust  the  glove 


272  The  Gold  Girl 

inside  her  shirt  and  stepping  lightly  to  the  table 
reread  the  penciled  lines  upon  the  crumpled  paper, 
and  over  and  over  again  she  read  the  signature; 
Raoul  Bethune,  known  also  as  Monk  Bethune. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  little  cabin  seemed 
stiffling.  Crumpling  the  paper  into  her  pocket, 
she  stepped  out  the  door.  She  must  do  something 
— go  some  place — talk  to  someone!  Her  horse 
stood  saddled  where  she  had  left  him,  and  catching 
up  the  reins  she  mounted  and  headed  him  at  a 
gallop  for  the  ravine  that  led  to  the  trampled  notch 
in  the  hills.  During  the  long  upward  climb  the 
girl  managed  to  collect  her  scattered  wits.  Where 
should  she  go  ?  She  breathed  deeply  of  the  pine- 
laden  air.  It  was  still  early  morning.  A  pair  of 
magpies  flitted  in  short  flights  from  tree  to  tree 
along  the  trail,  scolding  incessantly  as  they  waited 
to  be  frightened  on  to  the  next  tree.  Patches  of 
sunlight  flashed  vivid  contrasts  in  their  black  and 
white  plumage,  and  set  off  in  a  splendor  of  changing 
color  the  green  and  purple  and  bronze  of  their  irri- 
descent  feathering.  A  deer  bounded  away  in  a 
blur  of  tan  and  white,  and  a  little  farther  on,  a 
porcupine  lumbered  lazily  into  the  scrub.  It  was 
good  to  be  alive!  What  difference  did  it  make 
which  direction  she  chose?     All  she  wanted  this 


Patty  Finds  a  Glove  273 

morning  was  to  ride,  and  ride,  and  ride!  She  had 
her  father's  map  with  her  but  was  in  no  mood  to 
study  out  its  intricacies,  nor  to  ride  slowly  up  and 
down  little  valleys,  scrutinizing  rock  ledges.  She 
would  visit  the  Samuelson  ranch,  and  find  out 
about  the  horse  raid,  and  inquire  after  Mr.  Samuel- 
son,  and  then — well,  there  would  be  plenty  of 
time  to  decide  what  to  do  then.  But  first,  she 
would  swing  around  by  the  little  tent  beside  the 
creek  and  see  if  Vil  Holland  had  returned.  Surely, 
he  must  have  returned  by  this  time,  and  she  must 
tell  him  how  it  was  she  had  been  riding  with  the 
horses — and,  she  must  give  him  back  his  glove. 
She  blushed  as  she  felt  the  pressure  of  its  soft  bulk 
where  it  rested  just  below  her  heart.  Surely,  he 
would  need  his  glove — and  maybe,  if  she  were  nice 
to  him,  he  would  tell  her  how  it  came  to  be  there — 
and  maybe  he  would  explain — this.  Her  horse  had 
stopped  voluntarily  after  his  steep  climb,  and  she 
glanced  down  at  the  trampled  grass,  and  from  that 
to  her  own  little  cabin  far  below  on  Monte' s  Creek. 
She  wondered,  as  she  rode  through  the  timber 
how  it  was  she  had  been  so  quick  to  doubt  this 
grave,  unsmiling  hillman  upon  such  a  mere  trivial- 
ity as  the  finding  of  a  glove.  And  then  she  won- 
dered at  her  changed  attitude  toward  him.  She 
18 


274  The  Gold  Girl 

had  feared  him  at  first,  then  despised  him.  And 
now — she  recalled  with  a  thrill,  the  lean  ruggedness 
of  him,  the  unwavering  eyes  and  the  unsmiling 
lips — now,  at  least,  she  respected  him,  and  she  no 
longer  wondered  why  the  people  of  the  hills  and 
the  people  of  the  town  held  him  in  regard.  She 
knew  that  he  had  never  sought  to  curry  her  favor — 
had  never  deviated  a  hair's  breadth  from  the  even 
tenor  of  his  way  in  order  to  win  her  regard  and,  in 
their  chance  conversations,  he  had  been  blunt  even 
to  rudeness.  And,  yet,  against  her  will,  her  opin- 
ion of  him  had  changed.  And  this  change  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  her  timely  rescue  from 
the  horse  herd — it  had  been  gradual,  so  gradual 
that  it  had  been  an  accomplished  fact  even  be- 
fore she  suspected  that  any  change  was  taking 
place. 

The  huge  rock  behind  wThich  nestled  the  little 
tent  loomed  before  her,  and  hastily  removing  the 
glove  from  its  hiding  place,  she  came  suddenly 
upon  his  camp.  A  blackened  coffee  pot  was 
nestled  close  against  a  tiny  fire  upon  which  a  pair 
of  trout  and  some  strips  of  bacon  sizzled  in  a  fry- 
ing pan.  She  glanced  toward  the  creek,  at  the 
same  moment  that  Vil  Holland  turned  at  the 
sound  of  her  horse's  footsteps,  and  for  several 


Patty  Finds  a  Glove  275 

seconds  they  faced  each  other  in  silence.  The 
man  was  the  first  to  speak : 

' '  Good  mornin' .  If  you'll  step  back  around  that 
rock  for  a  minute,  I'll  slip  into  my  shirt." 

And  suddenly  Patty  realized  that  he  was 
stripped  to  the  waist,  but  her  eyes  never  left  the 
point  high  on  his  upper  arm,  almost  against  the 
shoulder,  where  a  blood-stained  bandage  dangled 
untidily. 

"You're  hurt!"  she  cried,  swinging  from  the 
saddle  and  running  toward  him. 

"Nothin'  but  a  scratch.  I  got  nicked  a  little, 
night  before  last,  an'  I  just  now  got  time  to  do  it 
up  again.  It  don't  amount  to  anything — don't 
even  hurt,  to  speak  of.  I  can  let  that  go,  if  you'll 
just " 

"Well,  I  won't  just  go  away — or  just  anything 
else,  except  just  attend  to  that  wound — so  there!" 
She  was  at  his  side,  examining  the  clumsy  bandage. 
"Sit  right  down  beside  the  creek,  and  I'll  look  at  it. 
The  first  thing  is  to  find  out  how  badly  you're 
hurt." 

"It  ain't  bad.  Looks  a  lot  worse  than  it  is.  It 
was  an  unhandy  place  to  tie  up,  left-handed." 

Scooping  up  water  in  her  hand  Patty  applied  it 
to  the  bandage,  and  after  repeating  the  process 


276  The  Gold  Girl 

several  times,  began  very  gently  to  remove  the 
cloth.  ■ '  Why  it's  clear  through ! "  she  cried,  as  the 
bandage  came  away  and  exposed  the  wound. 

"Just  through  the  meat — it  missed  the  bone. 
That  cold  water  feels  good.  It  was  gettin'  kind  of 
stiff." 

"What  did  you  put  on  it?" 

"Nothin'.  Didn't  have  anything  along,  an' 
wouldn't  have  had  time  to  fool  with  it  if  I'd  been 
packin'  a  whole  drug-store." 

"Where's  your  whisky?" 

"I  ain't  got  any." 

* '  Where's  your  jug  ?  Surely  there  must  be  some 
in  it — enough  to  wash  out  this  wound." 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "No,  the  jug's 
plumb  empty  an*  dry.  I  ain't  be'n  to  town  for 
'most  a  week." 

Patty  was  fumbling  at  her  saddle  for  the  little 
"first  aid  "  kit  that  she  faithfully  carried,  and  until 
this  moment,  had  never  found  use  for.  ' '  Probably 
the  only  time  in  the  world  it  would  ever  do  you  any 
good,  you  haven't  got  it!"  she  exclaimed,  dis- 
gustedly, as  she  unrolled  a  strip  of  gauze  from 
about  a  tiny  box  of  salve. 

"I'm  sorry  there  ain't  any  whisky  in  the  jug. 
I  never  thought  of  keepin'  it  for  accident." 


Patty  Finds  a  Glove  277 

The  girl  smeared  the  wound  full  of  salve  and  ad- 
justed the  bandage,  "Now,"  she  said,  authorita- 
tively, "you're  going  to  eat  your  breakfast  and 
then  we're  going  to  ride  straight  to  Samuelson's 
ranch.  The  doctor  will  be  there  and  he  can  dress 
this  wound  right." 

"It's  all  right,  just  the  way  it  is,"  said  Holland. 
"I've  seen  fellows  done  up  in  bandages,  one  way 
an'  another,  but  not  any  that  was  better  'tended 
to  than  that."  He  glanced  approvingly  at  the 
neatly  bandaged  arm.  "Anyhow,  this  is  nothin' 
but  a  scratch  an'  it'll  be  all  healed  up,  chances  are, 
before  we  could  get  to  Samuelson's." 

"No,  it  won't  be  all  healed  up  before  you  get 
to  Samuelson's  either!  Run  along,  now,  and  I'll 
stay  here  while  you  finish  dressing,  and  when 
you're  through,  you  call  me.  I've  had  breakfast 
but  I  can  drink  a  cup  of  coffee,  if  you'll  ask  me." 

"You're  asked,"  the  man  replied,  gravely,  "and 
while  I  go  to  the  tent,  you  might  take  that  outfit 
an'  jerk  a  couple  more  trout  out  of  the  creek."  He 
pointed  to  a  light  fishing  pole  with  hook  and  line 
attached  that  leaned  against  a  tree.  "It  ain't  as 
fancy  as  the  outfit  Len  Christie  packs,  but  it 
works  just  as  good,  an'  ain't  any  bother  to  take 
<care  of." 


27S  The  Gold  Girl 

A  few  minutes  later  Vil  Holland  emerged  from 
the  tent.  "Sorry  I  ain't  got  a  table,"  he  apolo- 
gized, "but  a  fry-in'  pan  outfit's  always  suited  me 
best — makes  a  fellow  feel  kind  of  free  to  pull  stakes 
an'  drift  when  the  notion  hits  him." 

"But,  you've  camped  here  for  a  long  time." 

The  man  glanced  about  him:  "Yes,  a  long 
time.  I  guess  I  know  every  place  in  the  hills  for  a 
hundred  miles  round  an'  this  is  the  pick  of  'em  all, 
accordin'  to  my  notions.  Plenty  of  natural  pas- 
ture, plenty  of  timber,  an'  this  little  creek's  the 
coldest,  an'  it  always  seems  to  me,  its  water  is  the 
sparklin'est  of  'em  all.  An'  then,  away  off  there 
towards  the  big  mountains,  early  in  the  mornin' 
an'  late  in  the  evenin',  when  it's  all  kind  of  dim 
down  here,  you  can  see  the  sunlight  on  the  snow — 
purple,  an'  pink,  an'  sometimes  it  shines  like  sil- 
ver an'  gold.  It  lays  fine  for  a  ranch.  Some- 
time, maybe,  I'm  goin'  to  homestead  it.  I'll 
build  the  cabin  right  there,  close  by  the  big 
rock,  an'  I'll  build  a  porch  on  it  so  in  the 
evenin's  we  could  watch  the  lights  way  up  there 
on  the  snow." 

Patty  smiled:  "Who  is  'we'?"  she  asked,  mis- 
chievously. 

The  man  regarded  her  gravely:     "Things  like 


Patty  Finds  a  Glove  279 

that  works  themselves  out.  If  there  ain't  any 
'we',  there  won't  be  any  cabin — so  there's  nothin' 
to  worry  about." 

"Did  you  catch  the  horse-thieves?" 

Vil  Holland's  face  clouded.  ' '  Part  of  'em.  Not 
the  main  ones,  though." 

Patty  shuddered.  "I  saw  one  of  them  lying 
back  there  by  the  trail.     It  was  horrible." 

"Yes,  an'  a  couple  of  more  went  the  same  way, 
further  on.  We'd  rather  have  got  'em  alive,  but 
they'd  had  their  orders,  an'  they  took  their  medi- 
cine.    We  got  the  horses,  though. ' ' 

' '  I  suppose  you're  wondering  how  I  came  to  be 
in  among  those  horses?" 

"I  figured  you'd  got  mixed  up  in  it  at  Samuel- 
son's,  somehow.  The  boys  didn't  know  nothin' 
about  it — except  Pierce — an'  he  guessed  wrong." 

Patty  laughed.  ' '  He  accused  me  of  being  one  <x 
the  gang,  and  even  threatened  to  lock  me  in  his 
cellar." 

"He  won't  again,"  announced  the  man,  dryly. 

"I  rode  down  there  to  get  him  to  go  for  the  doc- 
tor. Mr.  Samuelson  was  worse,  and  there  was  no 
one  else  to  go.  And  when  I  started  on  for  town, 
the  horses  swept  down  on  me  and  carried  me  along 
with  them." 


28o  The  Gold  Girl 

1  'Was  the  doctor  got?"  asked  Holland  with  sud- 
den interest. 

"Yes,  I  rode  on  down  to  Thompson's,  and  Mr. 
Thompson  sent  a  man  to  town.  He  was  provoked 
with  you  for  not  letting  him  in  on  the  raid." 

"He'll  get  over  it.  You  see,  I  didn't  want  to 
call  out  the  married  men.  I  surmised  there' d  be 
gun-play  an'  there  wasn't  any  use  takin'  chances 
with  men  that  was  needed,  when  there's  plenty  of 
us  around  the  hills  that  it  don't  make  any  differ- 
ence to  anyone  if  we  come  back  or  not.  I  didn't 
figure  on  lettin'  Pierce  in." 

When  they  had  finished  washing  the  dishes  the 
girl  glanced  toward  the  buckskin  that  was  snipping 
grass  in  the  clearing:  "It's  time  we  were  going. 
The  doctor  may  start  for  town  this  morning  and 
we'll  meet  him  on  the  trail." 

"This  ain't  a  doctor's  job,"  protested  the  man. 
"My  arm  feels  fine." 

1 '  It's  so  stiff  you  can  hardly  use  it.  It  must  feel 
fine.  But  it  doesn't  make  a  particle  of  difference 
how  fine  it  feels.  It  needs  attention.  And,  surely 
you  won't  refuse  to  do  this  for  me,  after  I  bandaged 
it  all  up?  Because,  if  anything  should  go  wrong  it 
would  be  my  fault." 

Without  a  word  the  man  picked  up  his  bridle 


Patty  Finds  a  Glove  281 

and  walking  to  the  buckskin,  slipped  it  over  his 
head  and  led  him  in.  He  saddled  the  horse  with 
one  hand,  and  as  he  turned  toward  the  girl  she  held 
out  the  glove. 

"Isn't  this  yours?  I  found  it  last  evening — out 
in  the  hills." 

Holland  thrust  his  hand  into  it:  "Yes,  it's 
mine.  I'm  sure  obliged  to  you.  I  lost  it  a  couple 
of  days  ago.  I  hate  to  break  in  new  gloves.  These 
have  got  a  feel  to  'em." 

* '  Do  you  know  where  I  found  it  ? " 

"No.  Couldn't  guess  within  twenty  miles  or 
so. 

Patty  looked  him  squarely  in  the  eyes:  "I 
found  it  over  where  Monk  Bethune  has  just  staked 
a  claim.  And  he  staked  that  particular  claim  be- 
cause it  was  the  spot  I  had  indicated  on  a  map  that 
I  prepared  especially  for  the  benefit  of  the  man  who 
has  been  searching  my  cabin  all  summer." 

Holland  nodded  gravely,  without  showing  the 
slightest  trace  of  surprise.  "Oh,  that's  where  I 
dropped  it,  eh?  I  figured  Monk  thought  he'd 
found  somethin',  the  way  he  come  out  of  your 
cabin  the  last  time  he  searched  it,  so  I  followed  him 
to  the  place  you'd  salted  for  him."  He  paused, 
and  for  the  first  time  since  she  had  known  him, 


282  The  Gold  Girl 

Patty  thought  she  detected  a  flicker  of  amusement 
in  his  eyes.  "He  didn't  waste  much  time  there — 
just  clawed  around  a  few  minutes  where  you'd 
pecked  up  the  dirt,  an'  then  sunk  his  stakes,  an' 
wrote  out  his  notice,  an'  high-tailed  for  the  regis- 
ter's office.  That  was  a  pretty  smart  trick  of  yours 
but  it  wouldn't  have  fooled  anyone  that  knows 
rock.  Bethune's  no  prospector.  He's  a  Canada 
crook — whisky  runner,  an'  cattle  rustler,  an' 
gambler.  Somehow,  he'd  got  a  suspicion  that 
your  father  made  a  strike  he'd  never  filed,  an'  he's 
been  tryin'  to  get  holt  of  it  ever  since.  I  looked 
your  plant  over  after  he'd  hit  for  town  to  file,  an* 
when  I  tumbled  to  the  game,  I  let  him  go  ahead." 

"But,  suppose  the  rock  had  been  right?  Sup- 
pose, it  had  really  been  daddy's  claim?" 

"Buck  can  run  rings  around  that  cayuse  of  his 
any  old  day.  I  expect,  if  the  rock  had  be'n  right, 
Monk  Bethune  would  of  met  up  with  an  adventure 
of  some  sort  a  long  ways  before  he  hit  town." 

"You  knew  he  was  searching  my  cabin  all  the 
time?" 

' '  Yes,  I  knew  that.  But,  I  saw  you  was  a  match 
for  'em — him  an'  the  fake  Lord,  too." 

1 '  Is  that  the  reason  you  threw  Lord  Clendenning 
into  the  creek,  that  day?" 


Patty  Finds  a  Glove  283 

"Yes,  that  was  the  reason.  I  come  along  an* 
caught  him  at  it.  Comical,  wasn't  it?  I  'most 
laughed.  I  saw  you  slip  back  into  the  brush,  but 
I'd  got  so  far  along  with  it  I  couldn't  help  finishin\ 
You  thought  the  wrong  man  got  throw'd  in." 

"You  knew  I  thought  that  of  you — and  you 
didn't  hate  me?" 

"Yes,  I  knew  what  you  thought.  You  thought 
it  was  me  that  was  searchin'  your  cabin,  too.  An' 
of  course  I  didn't  hate  you  because  you  couldn't 
hardly  help  figurin'  that  way  after  you'd  run  onto 
the  place  in  the  rim-rocks  where  I  watched  from. 
If  it  wasn't  for  the  trees  I  could  have  strung  along 
in  a  different  place  each  time,  but  that's  the  only 
spot  that  your  cabin  shows  up  from." 

"And  you  knew  that  they  always  followed  me 
through  the  hills?" 

"Yes,  an'  they  wasn't  the  only  ones  that  fol- 
lowed. Clendenning  ain't  as  bad  as  Bethune,  for 
all  he's  throw'd  in  with  him.  The  days  Bethune 
followed  you,  I  followed  Bethune.  An'  when  Clen- 
denning followed  you,  I  prospected,  mostly." 

"You  thought  Bethune  might  have — have  at- 
tacked me?" 

"I  wasn't  takin'  any  chances — not  with  him,  I 
wasn't.     One  day,  I  thought  for  a  minute  he  was 


284  The  Gold  Girl 

goin'  to  try  it.  It  was  the  day  you  an'  him  et 
lunch  together — when  he  pretended  to  be  so  sur- 
prised at  runnin'  onto  you.  I  laid  behind  a  rock 
with  a  bead  draw'd  on  him.  He  stopped  just 
exactly  one  step  this  side  of  hell,  that  day." 

Patty  regarded  the  cowboy  thoughtfully:  "And 
Bethune  told  me  he  had  to  go  over  onto  the  east 
slope  to  see  about  some  horses.  It  was  after  we 
had  met  Pierce,  and  Bethune  asked  about  Mr. 
Samuelson  and  Pierce  snubbed  him.  I  believe 
Bethune  planned  that  raid.  And  seeing  us  to- 
gether that  day,  Pierce  jumped  to  the  conclusion 
that  I  was  in  with  him." 

"Yes,  it  was  Monk's  raid,  all  right,  an'  him  an' 
Clendenning  got  away.  He  doped  it  all  out  that 
day.  I  followed  him  when  he  quit  you  there  on 
the  trail,  an'  watched  him  plan  out  the  route  they'd 
take  with  the  horses.  Then  I  done  some  plannin' 
of  my  own.  That's  why  we  was  able  to  head  'em 
off  so  handy.  We  didn't  get  Bethune  an'  Clen- 
denning but  I'll  get  'em  yet." 

They  had  mounted  and  were  riding  toward 
Samuelson's.  * '  Maybe  he's  made  his  escape  across 
the  line,"  ventured  the  girl,  after  a  long  silence. 

Holland  shook  his  head:  "No,  he  ain't  across 
the  line.     He  don't  think  we  savvy  he  was  in  on 


Patty  Finds  a  Glove  285 

the  raid,  an'  he'll  stick  around  the  hills  an'  prob'ly 
put  a  crew  to  work  on  his  claim."  He  relapsed 
into  silence,  and  as  they  rode  side  by  side,  under  the 
cover  of  her  hat  brim,  Patty  found  opportunity  to 
study  the  lean  brown  face. 

1 '  Where's  your  gun  ? ' '  The  man  asked  the  ques- 
tion abruptly,  without  removing  his  eyes  from  the 
fore-trail. 

' '  I  left  it  home.  I  only  carried  it  once  or  twice. 
It's  heavy,  and  anyway  it  was  silly  to  carry  it,  I 
don't  even  know  how  to  fire  it,  let  alone  hit  any- 
thing." 

"If  it's  too  heavy  on  your  belt  you  can  carry  it 
on  your  saddle  horn.  I'll  show  you  how  to  use  it 
— an'  how  to  shoot  where  you  hold  it,  too.  Mrs. 
Samuelson  ain't  as  husky  as  you  are,  an'  she  can 
wipe  a  gnat's  eye  with  a  six-gun,  either  handed. 
Practice  is  all  it  takes,  an' " 

"But,  why  should  I  carry  it?  Bethune  would 
hardly  dare  harm  me,  and  anyway,  now  that  he 
thinks  he  has  stolen  my  secret,  he  wouldn't  have 
any  object  in  doing  so." 

"You're  goin'  to  keep  on  huntin'  your  dad's 
claim,  ain't  you?" 

"Of  course  I  am!    And  I'll  find  it,  too." 

"An',  in  the  meantime,  what  if  Bethune  finds 


286  The  Gold  Girl 

out  he's  been  tricked?  These  French  breeds  go 
crazy  when  they're  mad — an'  he'll  either  lay  for 
you  just  to  get  even,  or  he'll  see  that  he  gets  the 
right  dope  next  time — an'  maybe  you  know  what 
that  means,  an'  maybe  you  don't — but  I  do." 

The  girl  nodded,  and  as  the  horses  scrambled 
up  the  steep  slope  of  a  low  divide,  her  eyes  sought 
the  hundred  and  one  hiding  places  among  the  loose 
rocks  and  scrub  that  might  easily  conceal  a  lurking 
enemy,  and  she  shuddered.  As  they  topped  the 
divide,  both  reined  in  and  sat  gazing  silently  down 
the  little  valley  before  them.  It  was  the  place  of 
their  first  meeting,  when  the  girl,  tired,  and  lost 
and  discouraged,  had  dismounted  upon  that  very 
spot  and  watched  the  unknown  horseman  with  his 
six-shooter,  and  his  brown  leather  jug  slowly  as- 
cend the  slope.  She  glanced  at  him  now,  as  he  sat, 
rugged  and  lean,  with  his  eyes  on  the  little  valley. 
He  was  just  the  same,  grave  and  unsmiling,  as  upon 
the  occasion  of  their  first  meeting.  She  noticed 
that  he  held  his  Stetson  in  his  hand,  and  that  the 
wind  rippled  his  hair.  "Just  the  same,"  she 
thought — and  yet — .  She  was  aware  that  her 
heart  was  pounding  strangely,  and  that  instead  of 
a  fear  of  this  man,  she  was  conscious  of  a  wild 
desire  to  throw  herself  into  his  arms  and  cry  with 


Patty  Finds  a  Glove  287 

her  face  against  the  bandage  that  bulged  the  shirt 
sleeve  just  below  the  shoulder. 

"I  call  this  Lost  Creek,"  said  Holland,  without 
turning  his  head.  "I  come  here  often — "  and 
added,  confusedly,  "It's  a  short  cut  from  my  camp 
to  the  trail." 

Patty  felt  an  overpowering  desire  to  laugh.  She 
tried  to  think  of  something  to  say:  "I — I  thought 
you  were  a  desperado,"  she  murmured,  and  giggled 
nervously. 

"An'  I  thought  you  was  a  schoolma'am.  I  guess 
I  was  the  first  to  change  my  mind,  at  that." 

Patty  felt  herself  blushing  furiously  for  no  reason 
at  all:  "But — I  have  changed  my  mind — or  I 
wouldn't  be  here,  now." 

Vil  Holland  nodded:  "I  expect  I'll  ride  to  town 
from  Samuelson's.  My  jug's  empty,  an'  I  guess  I 
might's  well  file  that  homestead  'fore  someone  else 
beats  me  to  it.  I've  got  a  hunch  maybe  I'll  be 
rollin'  up  that  cabin — before  snow  flies." 


CHAPTER   XVII 


UNMASKED 


At  the  Samuelson's  ranch  they  found  not  only 
the  doctor  but  Len  Christie.  Mr.  Samuelson's 
condition  had  taken  a  sudden  turn  for  the  better 
and  it  was  a  jubilant  little  group  that  welcomed 
Patty  as  she  rode  up  to  the  veranda.  Vil  Holland 
had  muttered  an  excuse  and  gone  directly  to  the 
bunk  house  where  the  doctor  sought  him  out  a  few 
minutes  later  and  attended  to  his  wound.  From 
the  top  of  "Lost  Creek"  divide,  the  ride  had  been 
made  almost  in  silence.  The  cowboy's  reference 
to  his  jug  had  angered  the  girl  into  a  moody  reserve 
which  he  made  no  effort  to  dispel. 

The  news  of  Patty's  rescue  from  the  horse  herd 
had  preceded  her,  having  been  recounted  by  the 
Samuelson  riders  upon  their  return  to  the  ranch, 
and  Mrs.  Samuelson  blamed  herself  unmercifully 
for  having  allowed  the  girl  to  venture  down  the 
valley  alone.     Which  self-accusation  was  promptly 

288 


Unmasked  289 

silenced  by  Patty,  who  gently  forced  the  old  lady 
into  an  arm  chair,  and  called  her  Mother  Samuel- 
son,  and  seated  herself  upon  the  step  at  her  feet, 
and  assured  her  that  she  wouldn't  have  missed  the 
adventure  for  the  world. 

"  We'll  have  a  jolly  little  dinner  party  this  even- 
ing," beamed  Mrs.  Samuelson,  an  hour  later  when 
the  girl  had  finished  recounting  her  part  in  the 
night's  adventure,  "there'll  be  you  and  Mr. 
Christie,  and  Doctor  Mallory,  and  the  boys  from 
the  bunk  house,  and  Vil  Holland,  and  it  will  be  in 
honor  of  Mr.  Samuelson's  turn  for  the  better, 
and  your  escape,  and  the  successful  routing  of 
the  horse-thieves." 

'  "Too  late  to  count  Vil  Holland  in,"  smiled  the 
doctor,  who  had  returned  to  the  veranda  in  time 
to  hear  the  arrangement,  "said  he  had  important 
business  in  town,  and  pulled  out  as  soon  as  I'd  got 
his  arm  rigged  up."  And,  in  the  doorway,  the 
Reverend  Len  Christie  smiled  behind  a  screen  of 
cigarette  smoke  as  he  noted  the  toss  of  the  head, 
and  the  decided  tightening  of  the  lips  with  which 
Patty  greeted  the  announcement. 

"But,  he's  wounded!"  protested  Mrs.  Samuel- 
son.     "In  his  condition,  ought  he  attempt  a  ride 
like  that?" 
19 


290  The  Gold  Girl 

The  doctor  laughed:  "You  can't  hurt  these 
clean-blooded  young  bucks  with  a  flesh  wound.  As 
far  as  fitness  is  concerned,  he  can  ride  to  Jericho  if 
he  wants  to.  Too  bad  he  won't  quit  prospecting 
and  settle  down.  He'd  make  some  girl  a  mighty 
fine  husband." 

Christie  laughed.  "I  don't  think  Vil  is  the 
marrying  kind.  In  the  first  place  he's  been  bitten 
too  deep  with  the  prospecting  bug.  And,  again, 
women  don't  appeal  to  him.  He's  wedded  to  his 
prospecting.  He  only  stops  when  driven  to  it  by 
necessity,  then  he  only  works  long  enough  to  save 
up  a  grub-stake  and  he's  off  for  the  hills  again.  I 
can't  imagine  that  high  priest  of  the  pack  horse 
and  the  frying  pan  living  in  a  house!" 

And  so  the  talk  went,  everyone  participating 
except  Patty,  who  sat  and  listened  with  an  elabo- 
rate indifference  that  caused  the  Reverend  Len  to 
smile  again  to  himself  behind  the  gray  cloud  of  his 
cigarette  smoke. 

"You  haven't  forgotten  about  my  school?" 
asked  Patty  next  morning,  as  Christie  and  the 
doctor  were  preparing  to  leave  for  town. 

"Indeed,  I  haven't!"  laughed  the  Bishop  of  All 
Outdoors.  "School  opens  the  first  of  September, 
and  that's  not  very  far  away.     But  badly  as  we 


Unmasked  291 

need  you,  somehow  I  feel  that  we  are  not  going  to 
get  you." 

''Why?"  asked  the  girl  in  surprise. 

"A  whole  lot  may  happen  in  ten  days — and  I've 
got  a  hunch  that  before  that  time  you  will  have 
made  your  strike." 

' '  I  hope  so ! "  she  exclaimed  fervidly.  ' '  I  know 
I  shall  just  hate  to  teach  school — and  I'd  never  do 
it,  either,  if  I  didn't  need  a  grub-stake." 

As  she  watched  him  ride  away,  Patty  was  joined 
by  Mrs.  Samuelson  who  stepped  from  the  house 
and  thrust  her  arm  through  hers.  "My  husband 
wants  to  meet  you,  my  dear.  He's  so  very  much 
better  this  morning — quite  himself.  And  I  must 
warn  you  that  that  means  he's  rough  as  an  old 
bear,  apparently,  although  in  reality  he's  got  the 
tenderest  heart  in  the  world.  He  always  puts  his 
worst  foot  foremost  with  strangers — he  may  even 
swear." 

Patty  laughed:  ''I'm  not  afraid.  You  seem  to 
have  survived  a  good  many  years  of  him.  He 
really  can't  be  so  terrible!" 

"Oh,  he's  not  terrible  at  all.  Only,  I  know  how 
much  depends  upon  first  impressions — and  I  do 
want  you  to  like  us." 

Patty  drew  the  old  lady's  arm  about  her  waist 


292  The  Gold  Girl 

and  together  they  ascended  the  stairs:  "I  love 
you  already,  and  although  I  have  never  met  him, 
I  am  going  to  love  Mr.  Samuelson,  too — you  see, 
I  have  heard  a  good  deal  about  him  here  in  the 
hills." 

Entering  the  room,  they  advanced  to  the  bed 
where  a  big-framed  man  with  a  white  mustache  and 
a  stubble  of  gray  beard  lay  propped  up  on  pillows. 
Sickness  had  not  paled  the  rich  mahogany  of  the 
weather-seamed  face,  and  the  eyes  that  met  Patty's 
from  beneath  their  bushy  brows  were  bright  as 
a  boy's.  "Good  morning!  Good  morning!  So, 
you're  Rod  Sinclair's  daughter,  are  you?  An'  a 
chip  of  the  old  block,  by  what  mama's  been  tellin' 
me.  I  knew  Rod  well.  He  was  a  real  prospector. 
Knew  his  business,  an'  went  at  it  business  fashion. 
Wasn't  like  most  of  'em — makin'  their  rock-peckin' 
an  excuse  to  get  out  of  workin'.  They  tell  me  you 
ain't  afraid  to  live  alone  in  the  hills,  an'  ain't 
afraid  to  make  a  midnight  ride  to  fetch  the  doc  for 
an  old  long-horn  like  me.  That's  stuff!  Didn't 
know  they  bred  it  east  of  the  Mizoo.  The  ones 
mama  an'  I've  seen  around  the  theaters  an'  res- 
taurants on  our  trips  East  would  turn  a  man's 
stomach.  Why,  damn  it,  young  woman,  if  I  ever 
caught  a  daughter  of  mine  painted  up  like  a  Piute 


Unmasked  293 

an'  stripped  to  the  waist  smokin'  cigarettes  an' 
drinkin'  cocktails  in  a  public  restaurant,  I'd  peel 
the  rest  of  her  duds  off  an'  turn  her  over  my  knee 
an'  take  a  quirt  to  her,  if  she  was  forty!" 

"Why,  papa!" 

"I  would  too — an'  so  would  you!"  Patty  saw 
the  old  eyes  twinkling  with  mischief,  and  she 
laughed  merrily: 

"And  so  would  I,"  she  agreed.  "So  there's  no 
chance  for  any  argument,  is  there? " 

"We  must  go,  now,"  reminded  Mrs.  Samuelson. 
"The  doctor  said  you  could  not  see  any  visitors 
yet.  He  made  a  special  exception  of  Miss  Sinclair, 
for  just  a  few  minutes." 

"I  wish  you  would  call  me  Patty,"  smiled  the 
girl.     "Miss  Sinclair  sounds  so — so  formal " 

1 '  Me,  too ! ' '  exclaimed  the  invalid.  "  I  '11  go  you 
one  better,  an'  call  you  Pat " 

"If  you  do,  I'll  call  you  Pap — "  laughed  the  girl. 

1 '  That's  a  trade !  An'  say,  they  tell  me  you  live 
over  in  Watts's  sheep  camp.  If  you  should  happen 
to  run  across  that  reprobate  of  a  Vil  Holland,  you 
tell  him  to  come  over  here.  I  want  to  see  him 
about " 

"There,  now,  papa — remember  the  doctor 
said " 


294  The  Gold  Girl 

"I  don't  care  what  the  doctor  said!  He's  fin- 
ished his  job  an'  gone,  ain't  he?  It's  bad  enough 
to  have  to  do  what  he  says  when  you're  sick — but, 
I'm  all  right  now,  an'  the  quicker  he  finds  out  I 
didn't  hire  him  for  a  guardian,  the  better  it'll  be 
all  round.  As  I  was  goin'  to  say,  you  tell  Vil  that 
Old  Man  Samuelson  wants  to  see  him  pronto. 
Fall's  comin'  on,  an'  I'll  have  my  hands  full  this 
winter  with  the  horses.  He's  the  only  cowman 
in  the  hills  I'd  trust  them  white  faces  with,  an' 
he's  got  to  winter  'em  for  me.  He's  a  natural 
born  cowman  an'  there's  big  money  in  it  after  he 
gets  a  start.  I'll  give  him  his  start.  It's  time 
he  woke  up,  an'  left  off  his  damned  rock-peckin', 
an'  settled  down.  If  he  keeps  on  long  enough  he'll 
have  these  hills  whittled  down  as  flat  as  North 
Dakota,  an'  the  wind'll  blow  us  all  over  into  the 
sheep  country.  Now,  Pat,  can  you  remember  all 
that?" 

The  girl  turned  in  the  doorway,  and  smiled  into 
the  bright  old  eyes:  "Oh,  yes,  Pap,  I'll  tell  him 
if  I  see  him.     Good-by!" 

"Good-by,  an'  good  luck  to  you!  Come  to  see 
us  often.  We  old  folks  get  pretty  lonesome  some- 
times— especially  mama.  You  see,  I've  got  all 
the  best  of  it — I've  got  her,  an'  she's  only  got  me ! " 


Unmasked  295 

As  Patty  threaded  the  hills  toward  her  cabin  her 
thoughts  followed  the  events  of  the  past  few  days; 
the  visit  of  Len  Christie  in  the  early  morning,  when 
he  had  inadvertently  showed  her  how  to  read  her 
father's  map,  the  staking  of  the  false  claim,  the 
visit  to  the  Samuelson  ranch,  the  horse  raid,  the 
finding  of  Vil  Holland's  glove  and  the  bitter  dis- 
appointment that  followed,  then  the  finding  of  the 
notice  that  disclosed  the  identity  of  the  real  thief, 
and  her  genuine  joy  in  the  discovery,  her  visit  to 
Holland's  camp,  and  their  long  ride  together.  "I 
tried  to  show  him  that  all  my  distrust  of  him  was 
gone,  but  he  hardly  seemed  to  notice — unless — I 
wonder  what  he  did  mean  about  having  a  hunch 
that  he  would  build  that  cabin  before  snow  flies  ?" 

For  some  time  she  rode  in  silence,  then  she  burst 
out  vehemently : ' '  I  don't  care !  I  could  love  him — 
so  there!  I  could  just  adore  him!  And  I  don't 
wonder  everybody  likes  him.  He  seems  always 
so — so  capable — so  confident.  You  just  can't  help 
liking  him.  If  it  weren't  for  that  old  jug !  He  had 
to  drag  that  in,  even  up  there  when  he  stood  on  the 
spot  where  we  first  met — and  then  at  the  Samuel- 
sons'  he  wouldn't  even  wait  for  dinner  he  was 
so  crazy  to  get  his  old  whisky  jug  filled.  It  never 
seems  to  hurt  him  any,"  she  continued.     "But 


296  The  Gold  Girl 

nobody  can  drink  as  much  as  he  does  and  not  be 
hurt  by  it.  I  just  know  he  meant  that  the  cabin 
was  going  to  be  for  me — or,  did  he  know  that  Mr. 
Samuelson  was  going  to  ask  him  to  winter  the  cattle  ? 
He's  a  regular  cave  man — I  don't  know  whether 
I've  been  proposed  to,  or  not ! " 

She  crossed  the  trail  for  town  and  struck  into  a 
valley  that  should  bring  her  out  somewhere  along 
the  Watts  fences.  So  engrossed  was  she  in  her 
thoughts  that  she  failed  to  notice  the  horseman 
who  slipped  noiselessly  into  the  scrub  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  ahead.  Slowly  she  rode  up  the  valley :  ' '  If 
he  comes  to  teach  me  how  to  shoot,  I'll  tell  him 
that  Mr.  Samuelson  wants  to  see  him,  and  if  he 
says  any  more  about  the  cabin,  or — or  anything — 
I'll  tell  him  he  can  choose  between  me  and  his  jug. 
And,  if  he  chooses  the  jug,  and  I  don't  find  daddy's 
mine — it  isn't  long  'til  school  opens.  I  don't 
mind — he  has  to  work  to  get  his  grub-stake,  and 
so  will  I." 

Her  horse  snorted  and  shied  violently,  and  when 
Patty  recovered  her  seat  it  was  to  find  her  way 
blocked  by  a  horseman  who  stood  not  ten  feet  in 
front  of  her  and  leered  into  her  eyes.  The  horse- 
man was  Monk  Bethune — a  malignant,  terrifying 
Bethune,  as  he  sat  regarding  her  with  his  sneering 


Unmasked  297 

smile.  The  girl's  first  impulse  was  to  turn  and  fly, 
but  as  if  divining  her  thoughts,  the  man  pushed 
nearer,  and  she  saw  that  his  eyes  gleamed  horribly 
between  lids  drawn  to  slits.  Had  he  discovered 
that  she  had  tricked  him  with  a  false  claim?  If 
not  why  the  glare  of  hate  and  the  sneering  smile 
that  told  plainer  than  words  that  he  had  her  com- 
pletely in  his  power,  and  knew  it. 

"So,  my  fine  lady — we  meet  again!  We  have 
much  to  talk  about — you  and  I.  But,  first,  about 
the  claim.  You  thought  you  were  very  wise  with 
your  lying  about  not  having  a  map.  You  thought 
to  save  the  whole  loaf  for  yourself — you  thought  I 
was  fool  enough  to  believe  you.  If  you  had  let  me 
in,  you  would  have  had  half — now  you  have  noth- 
ing. The  claim  is  all  staked  and  filed,  and  the  ad- 
joining claims  for  a  mile  are  staked  with  the  stakes 
of  my  friends — and  you  have  nothing !  You  were 
the  fool!  You  couldn't  have  won  against  me. 
Failing  in  my  story  of  partnership  with  your  father, 
I  had  intended  to  marry  you,  and  failing  in  that, 
I  should  have  taken  the  map  by  force — for  I  knew 
you  carried  it  with  you.  But  I  dislike  violence 
when  the  end  may  be  gained  by  other  means,  so  I 
waited  until,  at  last,  happened  the  thing  I  knew 
would  happen — you  became  careless.     You  left 


298  The  Gold  Girl 

your  precious  map  and  photograph  in  plain  sight 
upon  your  little  table — and  now  you  have  noth- 
ing." So  he  had  not  discovered  the  deception, 
but,  through  accident  or  design,  had  seized  this 
opportunity  to  gloat  over  her,  and  taunt  her  with 
her  loss.  His  carefully  assumed  mask  of  suave 
courtliness  had  disappeared,  and  Patty  realized 
that  at  last  she  was  face  to  face  with  the  real  Be- 
thune,  a  creature  so  degenerate  that  he  boasted 
openly  of  having  stolen  her  secret,  as  though  the 
fact  redounded  greatly  to  his  credit. 

A  sudden  rage  seized  her.  She  touched  her 
horse  with  the  spur:  "Let  me  pass!"  she  de- 
manded, her  lips  white. 

The  man's  answer  was  a  sneering  laugh,  as  he 
blocked  her  way:  "Ho!  not  so  fast,  my  pretty! 
How  about  the  Samuelson  horse  raid — your  part 
in  it  ?  Three  of  my  best  men  are  in  hell  because 
you  tipped  off  that  raid  to  Vil  Holland !  How  you 
found  it  out  I  do  not  know — but  women,  of  a  cer- 
tain kind,  can  find  out  anything  from  men.  No 
doubt  Clen,  in  some  sweet  secret  meeting  place, 
poured  the  story  into  your  ear,  although  he  denies 
it  on  his  life." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Ha!     Ha!     Injured    innocence!"     He    leered 


Unmasked  299 

knowingly  into  her  flashing  eyes:  "It  seems  that 
everyone  else  knew  what  I  did  not.  But,  I  am  of 
a  forgiving  nature.  I  will  not  see  you  starve. 
Leave  the  others  and  come  to  me " 

"  You  cur!"  The  words  cut  like  a  swish  of  a 
lash,  and  again  the  man  laughed : 

"Oh,  not  so  fast,  you  hussy!  I  must  admit  it 
rather  piqued  me  to  be  bested  in  the  matter  of  a 
woman — and  by  a  soul-puncher.  I  was  on  hand 
early  that  morning,  to  spy  upon  your  movements, 
as  was  my  custom.  I  speak  of  the  morning  follow- 
ing the  night  that  the  very  Reverend  Christie 
spent  with  you  in  your  cabin.  I  should  not  have 
believed  it  had  I  not  seen  his  horse  running  un- 
saddled with  your  own.  Also  later,  I  saw  you 
come  out  of  the  cabin  together.  Then  I  damned 
myself  for  not  having  reached  out  before  and  taken 
what  was  there  for  me  to  take." 

With  a  low  cry  of  fury,  the  girl  drove  her  spurs 
into  her  horse's  sides.  The  animal  leaped  against 
Bethune's  horse,  forcing  him  aside.  The  quarter- 
breed  reached  swiftly  for  her  bridle  reins,  and  as 
he  leaned  forward  with  his  arm  outstretched,  Patty 
summoned  all  her  strength  and,  whirling  her  heavy 
braided  rawhide  quirt  high  above  her  head, 
brought  it  down  with  the  full  sweep  of  her  muscular 


3oo  The  Gold  Girl 

arm.  The  feel  of  the  blow  was  good  as  it  landed 
squarely  upon  the  inflamed  brutish  face,  and  the 
shrill  scream  of  pain  that  followed,  sent  a  wild 
thrill  of  joy  to  the  very  heart  of  the  girl.  Again, 
the  lash  swung  high,  this  time  to  descend  upon  the 
flank  of  her  horse,  and  before  Bethune  could  re- 
cover himself,  the  frenzied  animal  shot  up  the 
valley,  running  with  every  ounce  there  was  in  him. 
The  valley  floor  was  fairly  level,  and  a  hundred 
yards  away  the  girl  shot  a  swift  glance  over  her 
shoulder.  Bethune's  horse  was  getting  under  way 
in  frantic  leaps  that  told  of  cruel  spurring,  and  with 
her  eyes  to  the  front,  she  bent  forward  over  the 
horn  and  slapped  her  horse's  neck  with  her  gloved 
hand.  She  remembered  with  a  quick  gasp  of  re- 
lief that  Bethune  prided  himself  upon  the  fact 
that  he  never  carried  a  gun.  She  had  once  taunted 
Vil  Holland  with  the  fact,  and  he  had  replied 
that  "greasers  and  breeds  were  generally  sneaking 
enough  to  be  knife  men. ' '  Again,  she  glanced  over 
her  shoulder  and  smiled  grimly  as  she  noted  that 
the  distance  between  the  two  flying  horses  had 
increased  by  half.  "Good  old  boy,"  she  whis- 
pered. "You  can  beat  him — can  'run  rings 
around  him/  as  Vil  would  say.  It  would  be  a 
long  knife  that  could  harm  me  now,"  she  thought, 


Unmasked  301 

as  she  pulled  her  Stetson  tight  against  the  sweep  of 
the  rushing  wind.  The  ground  was  becoming  more 
and  more  uneven.  Loose  rock  fragments  were 
strewn  about  in  increasing  numbers,  and  the  valley 
was  narrowing  to  an  extent  that  necessitated  fre- 
quent fording  of  the  shallow  creek.  "He  can't 
make  any  better  time  than  I  can,"  muttered  the 
girl,  as  she  noted  the  slackening  of  her  horse's 
speed.  She  was  riding  on  a  loose  rein,  giving  her 
horse  his  head,  for  she  realized  that  to  force  him 
might  mean  a  misstep  and  a  fall.  She  closed  her 
eyes  and  shuddered  at  the  thoughts  of  a  fall.  A 
thousand  times  better  had  she  fallen  and  been 
pounded  to  a  pulp  by  the  flying  hoofs  of  the  horse 
herd,  than  to  fall  now — and  survive  it.  The 
ascent  became  steeper.  Her  horse  was  still  run- 
ning, but  very  slowly.  His  neck  and  shoulders 
were  reeking  with  sweat,  and  she  could  hear  the 
labored  breath  pumping  through  his  distended 
nostrils. 

A  sudden  fear  shot  through  her.  Nine  valleys 
in  every  ten,  she  knew,  ended  in  surmountable 
divides;  and  she  knew,  also,  that  one  valley  in 
every  ten  did  not.  Suppose  this  one  that  she  had 
chosen  at  random  terminated  in  a  cul-de-sac  ?  The 
way  became  steeper.     Running  was  out  of  the 


302  The  Gold  Girl 

question,  and  her  horse  was  forging  upward  in  a 
curious  scrambling  walk.  A  noise  of  clattering 
rocks  sounded  behind  her,  and  Patty  glanced  back- 
ward straight  into  the  face  of  Bethune.  Reckless 
of  a  fall,  in  the  blind  fury  of  his  passion,  the 
quarter -breed  had  forced  his  horse  to  his  utmost, 
and  rapidly  closed  up  the  gap  until  scarcely  ten 
yards  separated  him  from  the  fleeing  girl. 

In  a  frenzy  of  terror  she  lashed  her  laboring 
horse's  flanks  as  the  animal  dug  and  clawed  like  a 
cat  at  the  loose  rock  footing  of  the  steep  ascent. 
White  to  the  lips  she  searched  the  foreground  for  a 
ravine  or  a  coulee  that  would  afford  a  means  of 
escape.  But  before  her  loomed  only  the  ever 
steepening  wall,  its  surface  half  concealed  by  the 
scattering  scrub.  Once  more  she  looked  backward. 
The  breath  was  whistling  through  the  blood-red 
flaring  nostrils  of  Bethune's  horse,  and  her  glance 
flew  to  the  face  of  the  man.  Never  in  her  wildest 
nightmares  had  she  imagined  the  soul-curdling 
horror  of  that  face.  The  lips  writhed  back  in  a 
hideous  grin  of  hate.  A  long  blue-red  welt  bisected 
the  features  obliquely — a  welt  from  which  red 
blood  flowed  freely  at  the  corner  of  a  swollen  eye. 
White  foam  gathered  upon  the  distorted  lips  and 
drooled  down  onto  the  chin  where  it  mingled  with 


Unmasked  303 

the  blood  in  a  pink  meringue  that  dripped  in  fluffy 
chunks  upon  his  shirt  front.  The  uninjured  eye 
was  a  narrow  gleam  of  venom,  and  the  breath 
swished  through  the  man's  nostrils  as  from  the 
strain  of  great  physical  labor. 

"Oh,  for  my  gun!"  thought  the  girl.  "I'd— 
I'd  kill  him!"  With  a  wild  scramble  her  horse 
went  down.  * '  Vil !  Vil ! "  she  shrieked,  in  a  frenzy 
of  despair,  and  freeing  herself  from  the  floundering 
animal,  she  struggled  to  her  feet  and  faced  her 
pursuer  with  a  sharp  rock  fragment  upraised  in 
her  two  hands. 

Monk  Bethune  laughed — as  the  fiends  must 
laugh  in  hell.  A  laugh  that  struck  a  chill  to  the 
very  heart  of  the  girl.  Her  muscles  went  limp  at 
the  sound  of  it  and  she  felt  the  strength  ebbing 
from  her  body  like  sand  from  an  upturned  glass. 
The  rock  fragment  became  an  insupportable  weight 
It  crashed  to  the  ground,  and  rolled  clattering  to 
Bethune's  feet.  He,  too,  had  dismounted,  and 
stood  beside  his  horse,  his  fists  slowly  clenching 
and  unclenching  in  gloating  anticipation.  Patty 
turned  to  run,  but  her  limbs  felt  numb  and  heavy, 
and  she  pitched  forward  upon  her  knees.  With  a 
slow  movement  of  his  hand,  Bethune  wiped  the 
pink  foam  from  his  chin,  examined  it,  snapped  it 


304  The  Gold  Girl 

from  his  fingers,  cleansed  them  upon  the  sleeve  of  his 
shirt — and  again,  deliberately,  he  laughed,  and 
started  to  climb  slowly  forward. 

A  rock  slipped  close  beside  the  girl,  and  the  next 
instant  a  voice  sounded  in  her  ear:  "I  don't 
reckon  he's  'round  yere,  Miss.  I  hain't  saw  Vil 
this  mo'nin'.  "  Rifle  in  hand,  Watts  stepped  from 
behind  a  scrub  pine,  and  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  Be- 
thune,  he  stood  fumbling  his  beard  with  uncertain 
fingers. 

"He — he'll  kill  me!"  gasped  the  girl. 

"Sho',  now,  Miss — he  won't  hurt  yo'  none,  will 
yo',  Mr.  Bethune?  Gineral  Jackson!  Mr.  Be- 
thune,  look  at  yo'  face!  Yo'  must  of  rode  again' 
a  limb!" 

"Shut  up,  and  get  out  of  here!"  screamed  the 
quarter-breed.  "And,  if  you  know  what's  good 
for  you,  you'll  forget  that  you've  seen  anyone  this 
morning." 

"B'en  layin'  up  yere  in  the  gap  fer  to  git  me  a 
deer.     I  heerd  yo'-all  comin',  like,  so's  I  waited." 

"Get  out,  I  tell  you,  before  I  kill  you!"  cried 
Bethune,  beside  himself  with  rage.  "Go!"  The 
man's  hand  plunged  beneath  his  shirt  and  came 
out  with  a  glitter  of  steel. 

The  mountaineer  eyed  the  blade  indifferently, 


Unmasked  305 

and  turned  to  the  girl.  "Ef  yo'  goin'  my  ways, 
ma'am,  jest  yo'  lead  yo'  boss  on  ahaid.  They's 
a  game  trail  runs  slaunchways  up  th'ough  the  gap 
yender.     I'll  kind  o'  f oiler  'long  behind." 

"You  fool ! "  shrilled  Bethune,  as  he  made  a  grab 
for  the  girl's  reins,  and  the  next  instant  found  him- 
self looking  straight  into  the  muzzle  of  Watts's  rifle. 

"Drap  them  lines,"  drawled  the  mountaineer, 
"thet  hain't  yo'  hoss.  An'  what's  over  an'  above, 
yo'  better  put  up  yo'  whittle,  an'  tu'n  'round  an'  go 
back  wher'  yo'  com'  from." 

' '  Lower  that  gun ! ' '  commanded  Bethune.  ' '  It's 
cocked!  " 

"Yes,  hit's  cocked,  Mr.  Bethune,  an'  hit's  sot 
mighty  light  on  the  trigger.  Ef  I'd  git  a  little 
scairt,  er  a  little  riled,  er  my  foot  'ud  slip,  yo'd 
have  to  be  drug  down  to  wher'  the  diggin's  easy, 
an'  buried." 

Bethune  deliberately  slipped  the  knife  back  into 
his  shirt,  and  laughed:  "Oh,  come,  now,  Watts, 
a  joke's  a  joke.  I  played  a  joke  on  Miss  Sinclair 
to  frighten  her " 

"Yo'  done  hit,  all  right,"  interrupted  Watts. 
"An' thet's  the  end  on't." 

The  rifle  muzzle  still  covered  Bethune's  chest  in 
the  precise  region  of  his  heart,  and  once  more  he 


306  The  Gold  Girl 

changed  his  tactics:  "Don't  be  a  fool,  Watts,"  he 
said,  in  an  undertone,  "I'm  rich — richer  than  you, 
or  anyone  else  knows.  I've  located  Rod  Sinclair's 
strike  and  filed  it.  If  you  just  slip  quietly  off 
about  your  business,  and  forget  that  you  ever  saw 
anyone  here  this  morning — and  see  to  it  that  you 
never  remember  it  again,  you'll  never  regret  it. 
I'll  make  it  right  with  you — I'll  file  you  next  to 
discovery." 

"Yo'  mean,"  asked  Watts,  slowly,  "thet 
you've  stoled  the  mine  oflen  Sinclair's  darter,  an* 
filed  hit  yo'self,  an'  thet  ef  I  go  'way  an'  let  yo' 
finish  the  job  by  murderin'  the  gal,  yo'll  give  me 
some  of  the  mine — is  thet  what  yo'  tryin'  to  git 
at?" 

1 '  Put  it  anyway  you  want  to,  damn  you !  Words 
don't  matter,  but  for  God's  sake,  get  out!  If  she 
once  gets  through  the  gap " 

"Bethune,"  Watts  drawled  the  name,  even  more 
than  was  his  wont,  and  the  quarter-breed  noticed 
that  the  usually  roving  eyes  had  set  into  a  hard 
stare  behind  which  lurked  a  dangerous  glitter, 
"yo're  a  ornery,  low-down  cur-dog  what  hain't 
fitten  to  be  run  with  by  man,  beast,  or  devil.  I'd 
ort  to  shoot  yo'  daid  right  wher'  yo'  at — an'  mebbe 
I  will.     But  comin'  to  squint  yo'  over,  that  there 


Unmasked  307 

damage  looks  mo'  like  a  quirt-lick  than  a  limb. 
Thet  ort  to  hurt  like  fire  fer  a  couple  a  days,  an' 
when  it  lets  up  yo'  face  hain't  a-goin'  to  be  so  purty 
as  what  hit  wus.  Ef  she'd  jest  of  drug  the  quirt 
along  a  little  when  hit  landed  she  c'd  of  cut  plumb 
into  the  bone — but  hit's  middlin'  fair,  as  hit  stands. 
I'm  a-goin'  to  give  yo'  a  chanct — an'  a  warnin',  too. 
Next  time  I  see  yo'  I'm  a-going'  to  kill  yo' — when- 
ever, or  wherever  hit's  at.  I'll  do  hit,  jest  as  shore 
as  my  name  is  John  Watts.  Yo'  kin  go  now — back 
the  way  yo'  come,  pervidin'  yo'  go  fast.  I'm  a- 
goin'  to  count  up  to  wher'  I  know  how  to — I 
hain't  never  be'n  to  school  none,  but  I  counted  up 
to  nineteen,  onct — an'  whin  I  git  to  wher'  I  cain't 
rec'lec'  the  nex'  figger,  I'm  a-goin'  to  shoot,  an* 
shoot  straight.  An'  I  hain't  a-goin'  to  study  long 
about  them  Aggers,  neither.  Le's  see,  one  comes 
fust — yere  goes,  then:  One  .  .  .  Two  .  .  . " 
For  a  single  instant,  Bethune  gazed  into  the  man's 
eyes  and  the  next,  he  sprang  into  the  saddle,  and 
dashing  wildly  down  the  steep  slope,  disappeared 
into  the  scrub. 

"Spec'  I'd  ort  to  killed  him,"  regretted  the 
mountaineer,  as  he  lowered  the  rifle,  and  gazed  off 
down  the  valley,  "but  I  hain't  got  no  appetite 
fer  diggin'." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

PATTY  MAKES   HER   STRIKE 

It  was  noon,  one  week  from  the  day  she  had 
returned  from  the  Samuelson  ranch,  and  Patty 
Sinclair  stood  upon  the  high  shoulder  of  a  butte 
and  looked  down  into  a  rock-rimmed  valley.  Her 
eyes  roved  slowly  up  and  down  the  depression 
where  the  dark  green  of  the  scrub  contrasted 
sharply  with  the  crinkly  buffalo  grass,  yellowed 
to  spun  gold  beneath  the  rays  of  the  summer  sun. 

She  reached  up  and  stroked  the  neck  of  her 
horse.  "Just  think,  old  partner,  three  days  from 
now  I  may  be  teaching  school  in  that  horrid  little 
town  with  its  ratty  hotel,  and  its  picture  shows,  and 
its  saloons,  and  you  may  be  turned  out  in  a  pas- 
ture with  nothing  to  do  but  eat  and  grow  fat !  If 
we  don't  find  our  claim  to-day,  or  to-morrow,  it's 
good-by  hill  country  'til  next  summer." 

The  day  following  her  encounter  with  Bethune, 

Vil  Holland  had  appeared,  true  to  his  promise,  and 

308 


Patty  Makes  Her  Strike       309 

instructed  her  in  the  use  of  her  father's  six-gun. 
At  the  end  of  an  hour's  practice,  she  had  been 
able  to  kick  up  the  dirt  in  close  proximity  to  a 
tomato  can  at  fifteen  steps,  and  twice  she  had 
actually  hit  it.  "That's  good  enough  for  any  use 
you're  apt  to  have  for  it,"  her  instructor  had  ap- 
proved. "The  main  thing  is  that  you  ain't  afraid 
of  it.  An'  remember,"  he  added,  "a  gun  ain't 
made  to  bluff  with.  Don't  pull  it  on  anyone  unless 
you  go  through  with  it.  Only  short-horns  an' 
pilgrims  ever  pull  a  gun  that  don't  need  wipuV 
before  it's  put  back — I  could  show  you  the  graves 
of  several  of  'em.  I'm  leavin'  you  some  extry 
shells  that  you  can  shoot  up  the  scenery  with. 
Always  pick  out  somethin'  little  to  shoot  at — start 
in  with  tin  cans  and  work  down  to  match-sticks. 
When  you  can  break  six  match-sticks  with  six 
shots  at  ten  steps  in  ten  seconds  folks  will  call  you 
handy  with  a  gun."  He  had  made  no  mention  of 
his  trip  to  town,  of  his  filing  a  homestead,  or  of 
their  conversation  upon  the  top  of  Lost  Creek 
divide.  When  the  lesson  was  finished,  he  had  re- 
fused Patty's  invitation  to  supper,  mounted  his 
horse,  and  disappeared  up  the  ravine  that  led  to 
the  notch  in  the  hills.  Although  neither  had  men- 
tioned it,  Patty  somehow  felt  that  he  had  heard 


3io  The  Gold  Girl 

from  Watts  of  her  encounter  with  Bethune.  And 
now  a  week  had  passed  and  she  had  seen  neither 
Vil  Holland  nor  the  quarter-breed.  It  had  been  a 
week  of  anxiety  and  hard  work  for  the  girl  who  had 
devoted  almost  every  hour  of  daylight  to  the  un- 
raveling of  her  father's  map.  Simple  as  the  direc- 
tions seemed,  her  inability  to  estimate  distances 
had  proven  a  serious  handicap.  But  by  dogged 
perseverance,  and  much  retracing  of  steps,  and 
correcting  of  false  leads,  she  finally  stood  upon  the 
rim  of  the  valley  she  judged  to  lie  two  miles  east 
of  the  humpbacked  butte  that  she  had  figured  to 
be  the  inverted  U  of  her  father's  map. 

"If  this  isn't  the  valley,  I'm  through  for  this 
year,"  she  said.  "And  I've  got  to-day  and  to- 
morrow to  explore  it."  She  wondered  at  her  in- 
difference— at  her  strange  lack  of  excitement  at 
this,  the  crucial  moment  of  her  long  quest,  even 
as  she  had  wondered  at  her  absence  of  fear,  be- 
lieving as  she  did,  that  Bethune  was  still  in  the 
hills.  The  feeling  inspired  by  the  outlaw  had  been 
a  feeling  of  rage,  rather  than  terror,  and  had 
rapidly  crystallized  in  her  outraged  mind  into  an 
abysmal  soul-hate.  She  knew  that,  should  the  man 
accost  her  again,  she  would  kill  him — and  not  for 
a  single  instant  did  she  doubt  her  ability  to  kill 


Patty  Makes  Her  Strike       311 

him.  Vaguely,  as  she  stood  looking  out  over  the 
valley,  she  wondered  if  he  were  following  her — 
if  at  that  moment  he  were  lying  concealed,  some- 
where among  the  surrounding  rocks  or  patches  of 
scrub?  Yet,  she  was  conscious  of  no  feeling  of 
fear.  She  even  attempted  no  concealment  as, 
standing  there  upon  the  bare  rock,  she  drew  her 
father's  map  and  photographs  from  her  pocket  and 
subjected  them  to  a  long  and  minute  scrutiny. 
And  then,  still  holding  them  in  her  hand,  gazed 
once  more  over  the  valley.  "To  'a,'  to  Vb/"  she 
repeated.  "What  is  there  that  daddy  would  have 
designed  as  'a,'  and  'b?'"  Suddenly,  her  glance 
became  fixed  upon  a  point  up  the  valley  that  lay 
just  within  her  range  of  vision.  With  puckered 
eyes  and  hat-brim  drawn  low  upon  her  forehead, 
she  stared  steadily  into  the  distance.  She  knew 
that  she  had  never  before  seen  this  valley,  and  yet 
the  place  seemed,  somehow,  strangely  familiar. 
With  a  low  cry  she  bent  over  one  of  the  photo- 
graphs. Her  hands  trembled  violently  as  her  eyes 
once  more  flew  to  the  valley.  Yes,  there  it  was, 
spread  out  before  her  just  the  way  it  was  in  the 
photograph — the  rock-strewn  ground — she  could 
even  identify  the  various  rocks  with  the  rocks 
in  the  picture.    There  was  the  lone  tree,  and  the 


3i2  The  Gold  Girl 

long  rock  wall,  higher  at  its  upper  end,  and — yes, 
she  could  just  discern  it — the  zigzag  crack  in  the 
rock  ledge !  Jamming  the  papers  into  her  pocket 
she  leaped  into  the  saddle  and  dashed  toward  a 
fringe  of  scrub  that  marked  the  course  of  a  coulee 
which  led  downward  into  the  valley.  Over  its 
edge,  and  down  its  brush-choked  course,  slipping, 
sliding,  scrambling,  she  urged  her  horse,  reckless  of 
safety,  reckless  of  anything  except  that  her  weary, 
and  at  times  it  had  seemed  her  hopeless,  search 
was  about  to  end.  She  had  stood  where  her  daddy 
had  stood  when  he  took  that  photograph — had 
seen  with  her  own  eyes — the  jagged  crack  in  the 
rock  wall ! 

In  the  valley  the  going  was  better,  and  with 
quirt  and  spur  she  urged  her  horse  to  his  best,  her 
eyes  on  the  lone  pine  tree.  At  the  rock  wall 
beyond,  she  pulled  up  sharply  and  stared  at  the 
jagged  crevice  that  bisected  it  from  top  to  bottom. 
It  was  the  crevice  of  the  photograph!  Very  de- 
liberately she  began  at  the  top  and  traced  its 
course  to  the  bottom.  She  noted  the  scraggly, 
stunted  pines  that  fringed  the  rim  of  the  wall  and 
that  the  crack  started  straight,  and  then  zigzagged 
to  the  ground.  Producing  the  "close  up"  photo- 
graph, she  compared  it  with  the  reality  before  her 


Patty  Makes  Her  Strike      313 

— an  entirely  superfluous  and  needless  act,  for 
each  minute  detail  of  the  spot  at  which  she  stared 
was  indelibly  engraved  upon  her  memory.  For 
hours  on  end,  she  had  studied  those  photographs, 
and  now — she  laughed  aloud,  and  the  sound  roused 
her  to  action.  Slipping  from  the  horse,  she  fumbled 
at  the  pack  strings  of  the  saddle  and  loosened  the 
canvas  bag.  She  reached  into  it,  and  stood  erect 
holding  a  light  hand-axe.  Once  more  she  con- 
sulted her  map.  "Stake  1.  c, "  she  read.  "That's 
lode  claim — and  then  that  funny  wiggly  mark, 
and  then  the  word  center."  Her  brows  drew 
together  as  she  studied  the  ground.  Suddenly  her 
face  brightened.  ' '  Why,  of  course ! ' '  she  exclaimed. 
"That  mark  represents  the  crack,  and  daddy 
meant  to  stake  the  claim  with  the  crack  for  the 
center.  Well,  here  goes!"  She  vehemently  at- 
tacked a  young  sapling,  and  ten  minutes  later 
viewed  with  pride  her  four  roughly  hacked  stakes. 
Picking  up  one  of  them  and  the  axe,  she  paced 
off  her  distance,  and  as  she  reached  the  first  corner 
point,  stared  in  surprise  at  the  ground.  The  claim 
had  already  been  staked !  Eagerly  she  stooped  to 
examine  the  bit  of  wood.  It  had  evidently  been 
in  place  for  some  time — how  long,  the  girl  could 
not  tell.    Long  enough,  though,  for  its  surface  to 


3H  The  Gold  Girl 

have  become  weather-grayed  and  discolored. 
"Daddy's  stakes, "  she  breathed  softly,  and  as  her 
ringers  strayed  over  the  surface  two  big  tears 
welled  into  her  eyes  and  trickled  unheeded  down 
her  cheeks.  "If  he  staked  the  claim,  I  wonder 
why  he  didn't  file, "  she  puzzled  over  the  matter 
for  a  moment,  and  dismissed  it.  "I  don't  know 
why.  But,  anyway,  the  thing  for  me  to  do  is  to 
get  in  my  own  stakes — only,  I'll  file,  just  as  soon 
as  I  can  get  to  the  register's  office. ' ' 

After  considerable  difficulty,  she  succeeded  in 
planting  her  own  stake  close  beside  the  other, 
which  marked  the  southwest  corner  of  the  claim,  a 
short  time  later  the  northwest  corner  was  staked, 
and  the  girl  stared  again  at  the  rock  wall.  "Why, 
I've  got  to  put  in  my  eastern  boundary  stakes 
up  on  top — three  hundred  feet  back  from  the 
edge!"  she  exclaimed;  "  maybe  I'll  find  his  notice 
on  one  of  those  stakes."  It  required  only  a  moment 
to  locate  a  ravine  that  led  to  the  top  of  the  ledge 
which  was  not  nearly  so  high  as  the  one  that 
formed  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley.  She  found 
the  old  stakes,  but  no  sign  of  a  notice.  ' '  The  wind, 
and  the  snow,  and  the  rain  have  destroyed  it  long 
ago,"  she  muttered.  "And,  now  for  my  own 
notice."    Producing  from  her  bag  a  pencil  and  a 


Patty  Makes  Her  Strike       315 

piece  of  paper,  she  wrote  her  description  and 
affixed  it  to  a  stake  by  means  of  a  bit  of  wire. 
Then,  descending  once  more  into  the  valley,  she 
produced  her  luncheon  and  threw  herself  down 
beside  the  little  creek.  It  was  mid-afternoon,  and 
she  suddenly  discovered  that  she  was  ravenously 
hungry.  With  her  back  against  a  rock  fragment, 
she  sat  and  feasted  her  eyes  upon  her  claim — hers — 
hers  !  Her  thoughts  flew  backward  to  the  enthu- 
siasm of  her  father  over  this  very  claim.  She  re- 
membered how  his  eyes  had  lighted  as  he  told  her 
of  its  hidden  treasure.  She  remembered  the  jibes, 
and  doubts,  and  covert  sneers  of  the  Middleton 
people,  her  father's  death,  her  own  anger  and  re- 
volt, when  she  had  suddenly  decided,  in  the  face 
of  their  council,  entreaties,  and  commands  to  take 
up  his  work  where  he  had  left  it.  With  kaleido- 
scopic rapidity  her  thoughts  flew  over  the  events 
of  the  ensuing  months — the  meeting  with  Vil 
Holland,  her  disappointment  in  the  Watts  ranch, 
her  eager  acceptance  of  the  sheep  camp,  the  long 
weary  weeks  of  patiently  riding  along  rock  walls, 
taking  each  valley  in  turn,  the  growing  fear  of 
running  out  of  funds  before  she  could  locate  the 
claim.  She  shuddered  as  she  thought  of  Monk 
Bethune,  and  of  how  nearly  she  had  fallen  a  victim 


316  The  Gold  Girl 

to  his  machinations.  Her  thoughts  returned  to 
Vil  Holland,  her  "guardian  devil  of  the  hills,"  who 
had  turned  out  to  be  in  reality  a  guardian  angel  in 
disguise.  "Very  much  in  disguise,"  she  smiled, 
"with  his  jug  of  whisky."  Nobody  who  had 
helped  make  up  her  little  world  of  people  in  the 
hill  country  was  forgotten,  the  Thompsons,  the 
Samuelsons,  and  the  Wattses — she  thought  of  them 
all.  "Why,  I — I  love  every  one  of  them,"  she 
cried,  as  though  the  discovery  surprised  her. 
"They're  all,  every  one  of  them,  real  friends — 
they're  not  like  the  others,  the  smug,  sleek,  best 
citizens  of  Middleton.  And  I'll  not  forget  one  of 
them.  We'll  file  that  whole  vein  from  one  end  to 
the  other ! "  Catching  up  her  horse,  she  mounted, 
and  sat  for  a  moment  irresolute.  "I  could  make 
town,  sometime  to-night,"  she  mused,  and  then 
her  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  upon  her  horse's 
neck  where  the  white  alkali  dust  lay  upon  the 
rough,  sweat-dried  hair.  "No,"  she  decided. 
"We'll  go  back  to  the  cabin,  and  you  can  rest 
up,  and  to-morrow  we'll  start  at  daylight." 

"Mr.  Christie  was  right,"  she  smiled,  as  she 
took  the  back  trail  for  Monte's  Creek.  "I  don't 
have  to  teach  school.  But,  I  wonder  how  he 
could  have  gotten   that    'hunch,'   as   he   called 


Patty  Makes  Her  Strike       317 

it?    When  I've  been  searching  for  the  claim  for 
months?" 

In  a  little  valley  that  ran  parallel  to  Monte's 
Creek,  Patty  encountered  Microby  Dandeline. 
The  girl  was  lying  stretched  at  full  length  upon  the 
ground  and  did  not  notice  her  approach  until  she 
was  almost  on  her,  then  she  leaped  to  her  feet, 
regarded  her  for  a  moment,  and,  with  a  frightened 
cry,  sprang  into  the  bush  and  scrambled  out  of 
sight  along  the  steep  side  of  a  ravine.  In  vain 
Patty  called,  but  her  only  answer  was  the  diminish- 
ing sounds  of  the  girl's  scrambling  flight.  "What 
in  the  world  has  got  into  her  of  late,"  she  won- 
dered, as  she  proceeded  on  her  way.  Certain  it 
was  that  the  girl  avoided  her,  not  only  at  the  Watts 
ranch,  but  whenever  they  had  chanced  to  meet  in 
the  hills.  At  first  she  had  attributed  it  to  anger  or 
resentment  over  her  own  treatment  of  her  when 
she  had  tried  to  get  possession  of  the  map.  But, 
surely,  even  the  dull-witted  Microby  must  know 
that  the  incident  had  been  forgotten.  "No, "  she 
decided,  "there  is  something  else."  Somehow,  the 
girl  no  longer  seemed  the  simple  child-like  creature 
of  the  wild.  There  was  a  furtiveness  about  her, 
and  she  had  developed  a  certain  crafty  side  glance, 
as  though  constantly  seeking  a  means  of  escape 


3i8  The  Gold  Girl 

from  something.  Her  mother  had  noticed  the 
change,  and  had  confided  to  Patty  that  she  was 
<4gittin'  mo'  triflin'  every  day,  a-rammin'  'round 
the  hills  a-huntin'  her  a  mine."  "There's  some- 
thing worrying  her,"  muttered  the  girl.  "Some- 
thing that  she  don't  dare  tell  anyone,  and  it's 
sapping  what  little  wit  she  has." 

It  was  late  that  evening  when  Patty  ate  her 
solitary  supper.  The  sun  had  long  set,  and  the 
dusk  of  the  late  twilight  had  settled  upon  the 
valley  of  Monte's  Creek  as  she  wiped  the  last  dish 
and  set  it  upon  the  shelf  of  her  tiny  cupboard. 
Suddenly  she  looked  up.  A  form  darkened  the 
doorway,  and  quick  as  a  flash,  her  eyes  sought  the 
six-gun  that  lay  in  its  holster  upon  the  bunk. 

"You  won't  need  that."  The  voice  was  re- 
assuring. It  was  Vil  Holland's  voice;  she  had 
recognized  him  a  second  before  he  spoke  and 
greeted  him  with  a  smile,  even  as  she  wondered 
what  had  brought  him  there.  Only  three  times 
before  had  he  come  to  her  cabin,,  once  to  ascertain 
who  was  moving  into  the  sheep  camp,  once  when 
he  had  pitched  Lord  Clendenning  into  the  creek, 
and  again,  only  a  few  days  before,  when  he  had 
come  to  teach  her  to  shoot.  The  girl  noted  that  he 
seemed  graver  than  usual,  if  that  were  possible. 


Patty  Makes  Her  Strike      3*9 

Certain  it  was  that  he  appeared  to  be  holding 
himself  under  restraint.  She  wondered  if  he  had 
come  to  warn  her  of  the  proximity  of  Bethune. 

"I  was  in  town,  to-day, "  he  came  directly  to  the 
point.  "An'  Len  Christie  told  me  you're  goin' 
to  teach  school."  He  paused  and  his  eyes  rested 
upon  her  face  as  if  seeking  confirmation. 

Patty  laughed;  she  could  afford  to  laugh,  now 
that  the  necessity  for  teaching  did  not  exist.  "I 
asked  him  if  he  could  find  a  school  for  me  some- 
time ago,"  she  replied,  trying  to  fathom  what  was 
in  his  mind. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  during  which 
Patty  saw  the  man's  fingers  tighten  upon  his  hat 
brim.  "I  don't  want  you  to  do  that.  It  ain't  fit 
work — for  you — teachin'  other  folks'  kids." 

Patty  stared  at  him  in  surprise.  The  words  had 
come  slowly,  and  at  their  conclusion  he  had  paused. 

*  *  Maybe  you  could  suggest  some  work  that  is 
more  fit?" 

The  man  ignored  the  hint  of  sarcasm.  "Yes — 
I  think  I  can."  His  head  was  slightly  bowed,  and 
Patty  saw  that  it  was  with  an  effort  he  continued: 
"That  is,  I  don't  know  if  I  can  make  you  see  it 
like  I  do.  It's  awful  real  to  me — an'  plain.  Miss 
Sinclair,  I  can't  make  any  fine  speeches  like  they 


320  The  Gold  Girl 

do  in  books.  I  wouldn't  if  I  could — it  ain't  my  way. 
I  love  you  more  than  I  could  tell  you  if  I  knew  all 
the  words  in  the  language,  an'  how  to  fit  'em  to- 
gether. I  loved  you  that  day  I  first  saw  you — 
back  there  on  the  divide  at  Lost  Creek.  You  was 
afraid  of  me,  an'  you  wouldn't  show  it,  an'  you 
wouldn't  own  up  that  you  was  lost — 'til  I'd  made 
the  play  of  goin'  off  an'  leavin'  you.  An'  I've  loved 
you  every  minute  since — an'  every  minute  since, 
I've  fought  against  lovin'  you.  But,  it's  no  use. 
The  more  I  fight  it,  the  stronger  it  gets.  It's 
stronger  than  I  am.  I  can't  down  it.  It's  the 
first  time  I  ever  ran  up  against  anything  I  couldn't 
whip."  Again  he  paused.  Patty  advanced  a  step, 
and  her  eyes  glowed  softly  as  they  rested  upon  the 
form  that  stood  in  her  doorway  silhouetted  against 
the  after-glow.  She  saw  Buck  rub  his  velvet  nose 
affectionately  up  and  down  the  man's  sleeve,  and 
into  her  heart  leaped  a  great  longing  for  this  man 
who,  with  the  unconscious  dignity  of  the  vast  open 
places  upon  him,  had  told  her  so  earnestly  of  his 
love.  She  opened  her  lips  to  speak  but  there  was 
a  great  lump  in  her  throat,  and  no  words  came. 

"That's  why,"  he  continued,  "I  know  it  ain't 
just  a  flash  in  the  pan — this  love  of  mine  ain't. 
All  summer  I've  watched  you,  an'  the  hardest 


Patty  Makes  Her  Strike       321 

thing  I  ever  had  to  do  was  to  set  back  an'  let  you 
play  a  lone  hand  against  the  worst  devil  that  ever 
showed  his  face  in  the  hills.  But  the  way  things 
stacked  up,  I  had  to.  You  had  me  sized  up  for  the 
one  that  was  campin'  on  your  trail,  an'  anything 
I'd  have  done  would  have  played  into  Bethune's 
hand.  I  know  I  ain't  fit  for  you — no  man  is.  But, 
I'll  always  do  the  best  I  know  how  by  you — an' 
I'll  always  love  you.  As  for  the  rest  of  it,  I  never 
saved  any  money.  I  know  there's  gold  here  in  the 
hills,  an'  I've  spent  years  huntin'  it.  I'll  find  it, 
too — sometime.  But,  I  ain't  exactly  a  pauper, 
either.  I've  got  my  two  hands,  an'  I've  got  a 
contract  with  Old  Man  Samuelson  to  winter  his 
cattle.  I  didn't  want  to  do  it  first,  but  the  figure 
he  named  was  about  twice  what  I  thought  the  job 
was  worth.  I  told  him  so  right  out,  an'  he  kind 
of  laughed  an'  said  maybe  I'd  need  it  all,  an'  any- 
how, them  cattle  was  all  grade  Herefords,  an'  was 
worth  more  to  winter  than  common  dogies.  So, 
you  see,  we  could  winter  through,  all  right,  an* 
next  summer,  we  could  prospect  together.  The 
gold's  here,  somewhere — your  dad  knew  it — an' 
I  know  it." 

Receiving  no  answering  pat,  the  buckskin  left 
off  his  nuzzling  of  the  man's  sleeve,  and  turned 


322  The  Gold  Girl 

from  the  doorway.  As  he  did  so  the  brown  leather 
jug  scraped  lightly  against  the  jamb.  The  girl's 
eyes  flew  to  the  jug,  and  swiftly  back  to  the  man 
who  stood  framed  in  the  doorway.  She  loved  him ! 
For  days  and  days  she  had  known  that  she  loved 
him,  and  for  days  and  nights  her  thoughts  had 
been  mostly  of  him — this  unsmiling  knight  of  the 
saddle — her  " guardian  devil  of  the  hills."  With- 
out exception,  the  people  whose  regard  was  worth 
having  respected  him,  and  liked  him,  even  though 
they  deplored  his  refusal  to  accept  steady  work. 
They're  just  like  the  people  back  home,  she 
thought.  They  have  no  imagination.  To  their 
minds  the  cowpuncher  who  draws  his  forty  dollars 
a  month,  year  in  and  year  out,  is  in  some  manner 
more  dependable  than  the  man  whose  imagination 
and  love  of  the  boundless  open  lead  him  to  stake 
his  time  against  millions.  What  do  they  know  of 
the  joys  and  the  despairs  of  uncertainty?  In  a 
measure  they,  too,  love  the  plains  and  the  hills — 
but  their  love  of  the  open  is  inextricably  inter- 
woven with  their  preconceived  ideas  of  conduct. 
But,  Vil  Holland  is  bound  by  no  such  convention; 
his  "outfit,"  a  pack  horse  to  carry  it,  and  his 
home — all  outdoors!  Her  father  had  imagination, 
and  year  after  year,  in  the  face  of  the  taunts  and 


Patty  Makes  Her  Strike       323 

jibes  of  his  small  town  neighbors,  he  had  stead- 
fastly allowed  his  imagination  full  sway,  and  at 
last — he  had  won.  She  had  adored  her  father 
from  whom  she  had  inherited  her  love  of  the  wild. 
But — there  was  the  jug!  Always  her  thoughts 
of  Vil  Holland  had  led  up  to  that  brown  leather 
jug  until  she  had  come  to  hate  it  with  an  unreason- 
ing hatred. 

"  I  see  you  have  not  forgotten  your  jug." 

"No,  I  got  it  filled  in  town."  The  man's  reply 
was  casual,  as  he  would  have  mentioned  his  gloves, 
or  his  hat. 

"You  said  you  had  never  run  up  against  any- 
thing you  couldn't  whip,   except — except " 

"Yes,  except  my  love  for  you.  That's  right — 
an'  I  never  expect  to." 

"How  about  that  jug?    Can  you  whip  that?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  could.  If  there  was  any  need.  I 
never  tried  it." 

"Suppose  you  try  it  for  a  while,  and  see." 

The  man  regarded  her  seriously.  "You  mean, 
if  I  leave  off  packin'  that  jug,  you'll " 

"I  haven't  promised  anything."  The  girl 
laughed  a  trifle  nervously.  "But,  I  will  tell  you 
this  much.    I  utterly  despise  a  drunkard!" 

Vil  Holland  nodded  slowly.     "Let's  get  the 


324  The  Gold  Girl 

straight  of  it, "  he  said.  "  I  didn't  know — I  didn't 
realize  it  was  really  hurtin'  me  any.  Can  you  see 
that  it  does?  Have  I  ever  done  anything  that 
you  know  of,  or  have  heard  tell  of,  that  a  sober 
man  wouldn't  do?" 

The  girl  felt  her  anger  rising.  ''Nobody  can 
drink  as  much  as  you  do,  and  not  be  the  wrorse  for 
it.    Don't  try  to  defend  yourself." 

"No,  I  wouldn't  do  that.  You  see,  if  it's hurtin' 
me,  there  wouldn't  be  any  defense — an'  if  it  ain't, 
I  don't  need  any." 

For  an  instant  Patty  regarded  the  man  who 
stood  framed  in  the  doorway.  "Clean-blooded," 
the  doctor  had  called  him,  and  clean-blooded  he 
looked — the  very  picture  of  health  and  rugged 
strength,  clear  of  eye  and  firm  of  jaw,  not  one 
slightest  hint  or  mark  of  the  toper  could  she  detect, 
and  the  realization  that  this  was  so,  angered  her 
the  more. 

Abruptly,  she  changed  the  subject,  and  the 
moment  the  brown  leather  jug  was  banished  from 
her  mind,  her  anger  subsided.  In  the  doorway, 
Vil  Holland  noted  the  undercurrent  of  suppressed 
excitement  in  her  voice  as  she  said:  "I  have  the 
most  wonderful  news !  I — I  found  daddy's  mine ! ' ' 
Seconds  passed  as  the  man  stood  waiting  for  her  to 


Patty  Makes  Her  Strike       325 

proceed.  "  I  found  it  to-day,"  she  continued,  with- 
out noting  that  his  lean  brown  hand  gripped  the 
hat  brim  even  more  tightly  than  before,  nor  that 
his  lips  were  pressed  into  a  thin  straight  line. 
"And  my  stakes  are  all  in,  and  in  the  morning 
I'm  going  to  file." 

Vil  Holland  interrupted.  "You — you  say  you 
located  Rod  Sinclair's  strike?  You  really  located 
it?"    Somehow,  his  voice  sounded  different. 

The  girl  sensed  the  change  without  defining  it. 
"Yes,  I  really  found  it!"  she  answered.  "Do  you 
want  to  know  where?  "  Hastily  she  turned  to  the 
cupboard  and  taking  a  match  from  a  box,  lighted 
the  lamp.  "You  see,"  she  laughed,  "I  am  not 
afraid  to  trust  you.  I'm  going  to  show  you  daddy's 
map,  and  his  photographs,  and  the  samples.  Oh, 
if  you  knew  how  I've  hunted  and  hunted  through 
these  hills  for  that  rock  wall !  You  see,  the  map 
was  like  so  much  Greek  to  me,  until  I  happened 
by  accident  to  learn  how  to  read  it.  Before  that, 
I  just  rode  up  and  down  the  valleys  hunting  for 
the  wall  with  the  broad  crooked  crack  in  it.  Here 
it  is."  The  man  had  advanced  to  the  table,  and 
was  bending  over  the  two  photographs,  examining 
them  minutely.  "And  here's  his  map."  He  picked 
up  the  paper  and  for  several  minutes  studied  the 


326  The  Gold  Girl 

penciled  directions.  Then  he  laid  it  down,  and 
turned  his  attention  to  the  samples. 

"High  grade,"  he  appraised,  and  returned  them 
to  the  table  beside  the  photographs.  "So,  you 
don't  have  to  teach  school,"  he  said,  speaking 
more  to  himself  than  to  her.  "An'  you'll  be  goin' 
out  of  the  hill  country  for  good  an'  all.  There's 
nothin'  here  for  you,  now  that  you've  got  what  you 
come  after.    You'll  be  goin'  back — East." 

Patty  laughed,  and  as  Vil  Holland  looked  into 
her  face  he  saw  that  her  eyes  held  dancing  lights. 
"I'm  not  going  back  East,"  she  said.  "I've 
learned  to  love — the  hill  country.  I  have  learned 
that —  perhaps — there  is  more  here  for  me  than — 
than  even  daddy's  mine." 

Vil  Holland  shook  his  head.  "There's  nothin' 
for  you  in  the  hills,"  he  repeated,  slowly,  and 
abruptly  extended  his  hand.  "I'm  glad  for  your 
sake  your  luck  changed,  Miss  Sinclair.  I  hope  the 
gold  you  take  out  of  there  will  bring  you  happiness. 
You've  earnt  it — every  cent  of  it,  an'  you've  got  it, 
an'  now,  as  far  as  the  hill  country  goes — the  books 
are  closed.    Good-night,  I  must  be  goin',  now." 

Abruptly  as  he  had  offered  his  hand,  he  withdrew 
it,  and  turning,  stepped  through  the  door,  mounted 
his  horse,  and  rode  out  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   RACE   FOR  THE   REGISTER 

Beside  the  little  table  Patty  Sinclair  listened 
to  the  sound  of  hoofs  splashing  through  the  shal- 
lows of  the  creek  and  thudding  dully  upon  the 
floor  of  the  valley  beyond.  When  the  sounds  told 
her  that  the  horseman  had  disappeared  into  the 
timber,  she  walked  slowly  to  the  door,  and  leaning 
her  arm  against  the  jamb,  stared  for  a  long  time 
into  the  black  sweep  of  woods  that  concealed  the 
trail  that  led  upward  to  the  notch  in  the  hills,  just 
discernible  against  the  sky  where  the  stars  showed 
through  the  last  faint  blush  of  after-glow  in  wink- 
ing points  of  gold. 

"Nothing  here  for  me,"  she  repeated  dully. 
1 '  Nothing  but  trees,  and  hills — and  gold.  He  loves 
me,"  she  laughed  bitterly.  "And  yet,  between 
me,  and  his  jug,  he  chose — the  jug."  She  closed 
the  door,  slipped  the  bar  into  place,  thrust  the 
photographs  and  map  into  her  pocket,  and  threw 

327 


328  The  Gold  Girl 

herself  face  downward  upon  the  bunk.  And,  in 
the  edge  of  the  timber,  Vil  Holland  turned  his 
horse  slowly  about  and  headed  him  up  the  ravine. 
At  the  notch  in  the  hills  he  slipped  to  the  ground 
and,  throwing  an  arm  across  the  saddle,  removed 
his  Stetson  and  let  the  night  wind  ripple  his  hair. 
Standing  alone  in  the  night  with  his  soul-hurt,  he 
gazed  far  downward  where  a  tiny  square  of  yellow 
light  marked  the  window  of  the  cabin. 

"It's  hell — the  way  things  work  out,"  he  said, 
thoughtfully.  "Yes,  sir,  Buck,  it  sure  is  hell.  If 
Len  had  told  me  a  week  ago  about  her  havin' 
to  teach  school,  or  even  yesterday — she  might 
have — But,  now — she's  rich.  An'  that  cracked 
rock  claim  turnin'  out  to  be  hers — "  He  swung 
abruptly  into  the  saddle  and  headed  the  buck- 
skin for  camp. 

Patty  spent  a  miserable  night.  Brief  periods  of 
sleep  were  interspersed  with  long  periods  of  wake- 
fulness in  which  her  brain  traveled  wearily  over 
and  over  a  long,  long  trail  that  ended  always  at  a 
brown  leather  jug  that  swung  by  a  strap  from  a 
saddle  horn.  She  had  found  her  father's  claim — 
had  accomplished  the  thing  she  had  started  out  to 
accomplish — had  vindicated  her  father's  judgment 
in  the  eyes  of  the  people  back  home — had  circum- 


The  Race  for  the  Register     329 

vented  the  machinations  of  Bethune,  and  in  all 
probability,  the  moment  that  she  recorded  her 
claim  would  be  the  possessor  of  more  gold  than 
she  could  possibly  spend — and  in  the  achievement 
there  was  no  joy.  There  was  a  dull  hurt  in  her 
heart,  and  the  future  stretched  away,  uninviting, 
heart-sickening,  interminable.  The  world  looked 
drab. 

She  ate  her  breakfast  by  lamplight,  and  as  ob- 
jects began  to  take  form  in  the  pearly  light  of  the 
new  day,  she  saddled  her  horse  and  rode  up  the 
trail  to  the  notch  in  the  hills — the  trail  that  was  a 
short  cut,  and  that  would  carry  her  past  Vil  Hol- 
land's little  white  tent,  nestling  close  beside  its 
big  rock  at  the  edge  of  the  little  plateau.  "He  will 
still  be  asleep,  and  I  can  take  one  more  look  at  the 
far  snow  mountains  from  the  spot  that  might  have 
been  the  porch  of — our  cabin." 

Carefully  keeping  to  the  damp  ground  that 
bordered  the  little  creek,  she  worked  her  way 
around  the  huge  rock,  and  drew  up  in  amazement. 
The  little  white  tent  was  gone !  Hastily,  her  eyes 
swept  the  plateau.  The  buckskin  was  gone,  and 
the  saddle  was  not  hanging  by  its  stirrup  from  its 
accustomed  limb-stub.  Crossing  the  creek,  the 
girl  stared  at  the  row  of  packs,  the  blanket  roll, 


330  The  Gold  Girl 

and  the  neat  tarpaulin-covered  bundles  that  were 
ranged  along  the  base  of  the  rock. 

"He  has  gone,"  she  murmured,  as  if  trying  to 
grasp  the  fact  and  then,  again:  "He  has  gone." 
Slowly,  her  eyes  raised  to  the  high-flung  peaks  that 
reared  their  snowy  heads  against  the  blue.  And 
as  she  looked,  the  words  of  Vil  Holland  formed 
themselves  in  her  brain.  "  If  there  ain't  any  'we,' 
there  won't  be  any  cabin — so  there's  nothing  to 
worry  about."  "Nothing  to  worry  about,"  she 
repeated  bitterly,  and  touching  her  horse  with  a 
spur,  rode  out  across  the  plateau  toward  the  head 
of  a  coulee  that  led  to  the  trail  for  town.  "Where 
has  he  gone?  "  she  wondered,  and  pulled  up  sharply 
as  her  horse  entered  the  coulee.  Riding  slowly 
down  the  trail  ahead,  mounted  on  the  meditative 
Gee  Dot,  was  Microby  Dandeline.  Urging  her 
horse  forward  Patty  gained  her  side,  and  realizing 
that  escape  was  hopeless,  the  girl  stared  sullenly 
without  speaking. 

"Why,  Microby ! "  she  smiled,  ignoring  the  sullen 
stare,  "you're  miles  from  home,  and  it's  hardly 
daylight!    Where  in  the  world  are  you  going?" 
"Hain't  a-goin'  nowher'.    I'm  prospectin'." 
"Where's  Vil  Holland,  have  you  seen  him?" 
The  girl   nodded:  "He's  done  gone  to  town. 


The  Race  for  the  Register     33 I 

He's  mad,  an'  he  roden  fas'  as  Buck  kin  run,  an* 
he  says,  '  I'm  gonna  file  one  more  claim,  an*  to  hell 
with  the  hill  country,  tell  yo'  dad  good-by!'" 

Patty  sat  for  an  instant  as  one  stunned.  ' '  Gone 
to  town !  Mad !  File  one  more  claim ! ' '  What  did 
it  mean  ?  Why  was  Vil  Holland  riding  to  town  as 
fast  as  his  horse  could  run?  And  what  claim  was 
he  going  to  file?  He  had  mentioned  no  claim — 
and  if  he  had  just  made  a  strike,  surely  he  would 
have  mentioned  it — last  night.  She  knew  that 
he  already  had  a  claim,  and  that  he  considered  it 
worthless.  He  told  her  once  that  he  hadn't  even 
bothered  to  work  out  the  assessments — it  was  no 
good.  Was  it  possible  that  he  was  riding  to  file 
her  claim?  Was  he  no  better  than  Bethune — only 
shrewder,  more  patient,  richer  in  imagination? 

With  a  swish  the  quirt  descended  upon  her 
horse's  flanks.  The  animal  shot  forward  and, 
leaving  Microby  Dandeline  staring  open-mouthed, 
horse  and  rider  dashed  headlong  down  the  coulee. 
Into  the  long  white  trail  they  swept,  through  the 
canyon,  and  out  among  the  foothills  toward 
Thompsons'.  "Why  did  I  show  him  the  map,  and 
the  pictures?  Why  did  I  trust  him?  Why  did  I 
trust  anybody?  I  see  it  all,  now!  His  continual 
spying,  and  his  plausible  explanation  that  he  was 


332  The  Gold  Girl 

watching  Bethune.  He  asked  me  to  marry  him, 
and  when,  like  the  poor  little  fool  I  was,  I  showed 
him  the  location,  he  was  only  too  glad  to  get  the 
mine  without  being  saddled  with  me." 

If  Vil  Holland  reached  town  first — well,  she 
could  teach  school.  Scalding  tears  blinded  her  as 
with  quirt  and  spur  she  crowded  her  horse  to  his 
utmost.  Only  one  slender  hope  remained.  With 
Thompson's  fresh  horse,  Lightning,  she  might  yet 
win  the  race.  The  chance  was  slim,  but  she  would 
take  it!  Her  own  horse  was  laboring  heavily,  a 
solid  lather  of  sweat,  as  his  feet  pounded  the  trail 
that  wound  white  and  hot  through  the  foothills. 
"It's  your  last  hard  ride,"  she  sobbed  into  his  ear 
as  she  urged  him  on.  "Win  or  lose,  boy,  it's  your 
last  hard  ride — and  we've  got  to  make  it!" 

She  whirled  into  Thompson's  lane  and,  in  the 
dooryard,  threw  herself  from  her  horse  almost  into 
the  arms  of  the  big  ranchman  who  stared  at  her 
in  surprise.  "Must  be  somethin's  busted  loose 
in  the  hills,  that  folks  is  all  takin'  to  the  open!" 
he  exclaimed. 

"Where's  Lightning?"  cried  the  girl.  "Quick! 
I  want  him!" 

"  Lightnin'  ? "  repeated  Thompson.  "Why, 
Lightnin's  gone — Vil  Holland  come  along  an  hour 


The  Race  for  the  Register     333 

or  so  ago,  an'  rode  him  on  to  town.  Turned  Buck 
into  the  corral,  yonder — he  was  rode  down  almost 
as  bad  as  yourn." 

Patty's  brain  reeled  dizzily  as  from  a  blow. 
Lightning  gone!  Her  one  slim  chance  of  saving 
her  mine  had  vanished  in  a  breath.  She  felt 
suddenly  weak,  and  sick,  and  leaning  against  her 
saddle  for  support,  she  closed  her  eyes  and  buried 
her  face  in  her  arm. 

"What's  the  matter,  Miss?    Somethin'  wrong?  " 

The  girl  laughed,  a  dry  hard  laugh,  and  raising 
her  head,  looked  into  the  man's  face.  "Oh,  no!" 
she  said.  "Nothing's  wrong — nothing  except 
that  I've  lost  my  father's  claim — lost  it  because 
I  relied  on  your  horse  to  carry  me  into  town  in 
time  to  file  ahead  of  him. " 

"Lost  y er  pa' s  claim ? ' '  cried  Thompson.  ' '  What 
do  you  mean — lost?  Has  that  devil  dared  to  show 
his  face  after  the  horse  raid  ? ' '  He  paused  suddenly 
and  smiled.  "Now  don't  you  go  worryin'  about 
that  there  claim.  Vil  Holland's  on  the  job!  I 
know'd  there  was  somethin'  in  the  wind  when  he 
come  a-larrupin'  in  here  an'  j  erked  his  kak  offen  Buck 
an'  throw'd  it  on  Lightnin'  without  hardly  a  word. 
Vil,  he'll  head  him !  An'  when  he  does,  Bethune'll 
be  lucky  if  he  lives  long  enough  to  git  hung!" 


334  The  Gold  Girl 

"Bethune!  Bethune!"  cried  the  girl  bitterly. 
"Bethune's  got  nothing  to  do  with  it!  It's  Vil 
Holland  himself  that's  going  to  file  my  claim. 
Have  you  got  another  horse  here?  "  she  cried.  "  If 
you  have  I  want  him.  I'm  not  beaten  yet! 
There's  still  a  chance!  Maybe  Lightning  will  go 
down,  or  something.    Quick — change  my  saddle!" 

Catching  up  a  rope,  Thompson  ran  to  the  corral 
and  throwing  his  loop  over  the  head  of  a  horse  led 
him  out  and  transferred  the  girl's  saddle  and 
bridle. 

"I  don't  git  the  straight  of  it,"  he  said,  eying 
her  with  a  puzzled  frown.  "But  if  it's  a  question 
of  gittin*  to  town  before  Vil  Holland  kin  beat  you 
out  of  yer  claim — you've  got  plenty  of  time — if 
you  walk." 

Patty  shot  the  man  one  glance  of  withering 
scorn.  " You're  all  crazy!  He's  got  you  hyp- 
notized!   Everybody  thinks  he's  a  saint " 

Thompson  grinned.  "No,  Miss,  Vil  ain't  no 
saint — an'  he  ain't  no  devil — neither.  But  some- 
wheres  between  the  two  of  'em  is  the  place  where 
good  men  fits  in — an'  that's  Vil.  You're  all  het  up 
needless,  an'  barkin'  up  the  wrong  tree,  as  folks 
used  to  say  back  where  I  come  from.  Just  come 
and  have  a  talk  with  Miz  T.    She  '11  straighten  you 


The  Race  for  the  Register     335 

around  all  right.  I'll  slip  in  an'  tell  her  to  set  the 
coffee-pot  on,  an'  you  kin  take  yer  time  about 
gittin'  to  town."  Thompson  disappeared  into  the 
kitchen,  and  a  moment  later  when  he  returned 
with  his  wife,  the  two  stared  in  amazement  at  the 
flying  figure  that  was  just  swinging  from  the  lane 
into  the  long  white  trail. 

Hours  later  the  girl  crossed  the  Mosquito  Flats, 
forded  the  river,  and  passed  along  the  sandy  street 
of  the  town.  Her  eyes  felt  hot  and  tired  from  con- 
tinual straining  ahead  in  a  vain  effort  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  fallen  horse,  whose  rider  must  con- 
tinue his  way  on  foot.  But  the  plain  was  deserted, 
and  the  only  evidence  that  anyone  had  proceeded 
her  was  an  occasional  glimpse  of  hoof  prints  in 
the  white  dust  of  the  trail. 

A  short  distance  up  the  street,  standing  "tied 
to  the  ground"  before  the  hitching  rail  of  a  little 
false-front  saloon,  was  Lightning.  Patty  noted 
as  she  passed  that  he  showed  signs  of  hard  riding, 
and  that  the  inevitable  jug  dangled  motionless 
from  the  saddle  horn.  Her  lips  stiffened,  and  her 
hand  tightened  on  the  bridle  reins,  as  she  forced 
her  eyes  to  the  front.  Farther  on,  she  could  see 
the  little  white-painted  frame  office  of  the  register. 
She  would  pass  it  by — no  use  for  her  to  go  there. 


336  The  Gold  Girl 

She  must  find  Len  Christie  and  tell  him  she  had 
come  to  teach  his  school.  A  great  wave  of  repug- 
nance swept  over  her,  engulfed  her,  as  her  eyes 
traveled  over  the  rows  of  small  wooden  houses  with 
their  stiff,  uncomfortable  porches,  their  treeless 
yards,  and  their  flaunting  paintiness. 

"And  to  think  that  I've  got  to  live  in  one  of 
them!  "  she  murmured,  dully.  "Nothing  could  be 
worse — except  the  hotel. " 

Opposite  the  register's  office  she  pulled  up,  and 
gazed  in  fascination  at  the  open  door.  Then  de- 
liberately she  reined  her  horse  to  the  sidewalk 
and  dismounted.  The  characteristic  thoroughness 
that  had  marked  the  progress  of  her  search  for  her 
father's  claim,  and  had  impelled  her  to  return  to 
the  false  claim  and  procure  the  notice,  and  that 
very  morning  had  prompted  her  to  ride  against  the 
slender  chance  of  Vil  Holland's  meeting  with  a 
misshap,  impelled  her  now  to  read  for  herself  the 
entry  of  her  father's  strike. 

The  register  shoved  his  black  skull-cap  a  trifle 
back  upon  his  shiny  head,  adjusted  his  thick 
eyeglasses,  and  smiled  into  the  face  of  the  girl. 
"Things  must  be  looking  up  out  in  the  hills,"  he 
hazarded.  "You're  the  second  one  to-day  and  it 
ain't  noon  yet." 


The  Race  for  the  Register      337 

"  I  presume  Mr.  Holland  has  been  here." 

11  Yes,  Vil  come  in.  I  guess  he's  around  some- 
wheres.     He " 

"  Relinquished  one  claim  and  filed  another?" 

"  That's  just  what  he  done." 

Patty  nodded  wearily.  She  was  gamely  trying 
to  appear  disinterested. 

"  Did  you  want  to  file? "  asked  the  man,  whirling 
a  large  book  about,  and  pushing  it  toward  her. 
"  Just  enter  your  description  there,  an*  fill  out  the 
application  fer  a  patent,  an'  file  your  field  notes, 
and  plat." 

The  girl's  glance  strayed  listlessly  over  the  ad- 
joining page,  her  eyes  mechanically  taking  in  the 
words.  Suddenly,  she  became  intensely  alert. 
She  leaned  over  the  book  and  reread  with  feverish 
interest  the  written  description.  The  location  was 
filed  in  Vil  Holland's  name — but,  the  description 
was  not  of  her  claim  ! 

"  Where — where  is  this  claim?  "  she  gasped. 

The  old  register  turned  the  book  and  very  de- 
liberately proceeded  to  read  the  description.  In 
her  nervous  excitement  Patty  felt  that  she  must 
scream,  and  her  fingers  clutched  the  counter  edge 
until  the  knuckles  whitened.  Finally  the  man 
looked  up.     "That  must  be  somewheres  over  on 


338  The  Gold  Girl 

the  Blackfoot  side,"  he  announced.  "Must  be 
Vil's  figuring  on  pulling  over  there.  Too  bad  we 
won't  be  seeing  him  much  no  more."  He  swung 
the  book  back,  as  the  import  of  his  words  dawned 
upon  the  girl  she  leaned  weakly  against  the 
counter. 

"Ain't  you  feeling  well?"  asked  the  old  man, 
eying  her  with  concern. 

Without  hearing  him  Patty  picked  up  the  pen, 
and  as  she  wrote,  her  hand  trembled  so  that  she 
could  scarcely  form  the  letters.  At  last  it  was  done, 
and  the  register  once  again  swung  the  book  and 
read  the  freshly  penned  words. 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned!"  he  exclaimed,  when  he 
had  finished. 

The  blood  had  rushed  back  into  the  girl's  face 
and  she  was  regarding  him  with  shining  eyes. 
"What's  the  matter?  Isn't  it  right?  Because  if 
it  isn't  you  can  show  me  how  to  do  it,  and  I'll  fix 
it." 

"Oh  it's  right — all  right."  He  was  eying  her 
quizzically.  "Only  it's  blamed  funny.  That  there's 
the  claim  Vil  Holland  just  relinquished." 

"Just  relinquished 7"  gasped  the  girl,  reaching 
out  and  shaking  the  old  man's  sleeve  in  her  ex- 
citement.   "What  do  you  mean?    Tell  me!" 


The  Race  for  the  Register     339 

''Mean  just  what  I  said — here's  the  entry." 

1 '  Vil — Holland — just — relinquished, ' '  she  re- 
peated, in  a  dazed  voice.    "When  did  he  file  it?" 

"I  don't  recollect — it  was  back  in  the  winter,  or 
spring."  The  man  began  to  turn  the  pages  slowly- 
backward.    "Here  it  is,  March,  the  thirteenth." 

"Why,  that  was  before  I  came  out  here!" 

"How?" 

"Why  did  he  relinquish?"  The  words  rushed 
eagerly  from  her  lips,  and  she  awaited  breathless, 
for  the  answer. 

"It  wasn't  no  good,  I  guess,  or  he  found  a  better 
one — that's  most  generally  why  they  relinquish." 

"No  good!  Found  a  better  one!"  From  the 
chaos  of  conflicting  ideas  the  girl's  thoughts  began 
to  take  definite  form.  "The  stakes  in  the  ground 
were  his  stakes.  Her  father  had  never  staked — 
would  never  have  staked  until  ready  to  file." 
Gradually  it  dawned  upon  her  that,  without  know- 
ing it  was  her  father's,  Vil  Holland  had  staked  and 
filed  the  claim.  It  was  his.  He  did  not  know  its 
value  as  her  father  had.  He  believed  it  to  be 
worthless,  but  when  he  learned,  only  last  night, 
back  there  in  the  cabin  on  Monte's  Creek,  that  it 
was  really  of  enormous  value — that  it  was  the 
claim  Rod  Sinclair  had  staked  his  reputation  on, 


340  The  Gold  Girl 

the  claim  for  which  Rod  Sinclair's  daughter  had 
sought  all  summer — when  he  learned  this  he  had 
relinquished — that  she  might  come  into  her  own ! 
Hot  tears  filled  her  eyes  and  caused  the  objects 
in  the  little  room  to  blur  and  swim  together  in 
hopeless  jumble.  She  knew,  now,  the  meaning  of 
his  furious  ride,  and  why  he  had  changed  horses 
at  Thompson's.  And  this  wTas  the  man  she  had 
doubted!  She,  alone  of  all  wrho  knew  him,  had 
doubted  him.  Her  cheeks  burned  with  the  shame 
of  it.  Not  once,  but  again  and  again,  she  had 
doubted  him — she,  who  loved  him !  This  was  the 
man  with  whom  she  had  quarreled  because  he  had 
carried  a  jug.  Suddenly  she  realized  why  he  had 
turned  away  from  her — there  in  the  little  cabin. 
She  recalled  the  words  that  came  slowly  from  his 
lips,  as,  for  a  brief  moment  he  stood  holding  her 
hand.  ''There  is  nothing  for  you  in  the  hills." 
"And  now,  he  is  going  away — his  outfit's  all 
packed,  and  he's  going  away!"  With  a  sob  she 
dashed  from  the  office.  As  she  blotted  the  tears 
from  her  eyes  with  a  handkerchief  that  had  been  her 
father's,  a  wild,  savage  joy  surged  up  within  her. 
He  should  not  go  away !  He  was  hers — hers!  If 
he  went,  she  would  go  too.  He  should  never  leave 
her !    And  never,  never  would  she  doubt  him  again ! 


The  Race  for  the  Register     341 

She  glanced  down  the  street  and  her  eyes  fell 
upon  Lightning,  standing  as  he  had  stood  a  few 
minutes  before.  Only  a  moment  she  hesitated, 
and  her  spurs  clicked  rapidly  as  she  hurried  down 
the  sidewalk.  The  door  of  the  saloon  stood  open 
and  she  walked  boldly  in.  Vil  Holland  stood  at 
the  bar  shaking  dice  with  the  bartender.  The 
latter  looked  up  surprised,  and  Vil  followed  his 
glance  to  the  figure  of  the  girl  who  had  paused 
just  inside  the  doorway.  She  beckoned  to  him 
and  he  followed  her  out  onto  the  sidewalk,  and 
stood,  Stetson  in  hand,  regarding  her  gravely,  un- 
smiling as  was  his  wont. 

"Vil — Vil  Holland,"  she  faltered,  as  a  furious 
blush  suffused  her  cheeks.  "I've  changed  my 
mind." 

"You  mean " 

"I  mean,  I  will  marry  you — I  wanted  to  say  it — 
last  night — only — only — "  her  voice  sounded 
husky,  and  far  away. 

1 ' But,  now,  it's  too  late.  It  was  different — then. 
I  didn't  know  you'd  made  your  strike.  I  thought 
we  were  both  poor — but,  now,  you've  struck  it 
rich." 

1 '  Struck  it  rich ! "  flared  the  girl.  ' '  Who  made  it 
possible  for  me  to  strike  it  rich?     Don't  you 


342  The  Gold  Girl 

suppose  I  know  you  relinquished  that  claim? 
Relinquished  it  so  I  could  file  it!" 

"Old  Grebble  talks  too  much,"  growled  the 
man.  "The  claim  wasn't  any  good  to  me.  I  never 
went  far  enough  in  to  get  samples  like  those  of 
your  dad's.  I'd  have  relinquished  it  anyway,  as 
soon  as  I'd  located  another." 

"But,  you  knew  it  was  rich  when  you  did 
relinquish  it." 

"A  man  couldn't  hardly  do  different,  could  he  ? " 

"Oh,  Vil, "  there j^were  tears  in  the  girl's  eyes, 
and  she  did  not  try  to  conceal  them.  The  words 
trembled  on  her  lips.  "A  man  couldn't — your 
kind  of  a  man!  But — they're  so  hard  to  find. 
Don't — don't  rob  me  of  mine — now  that  I've 
found  him!" 

A  shrill  whistle  tore  the  words  from  her  lips. 
She  glanced  up,  startled,  to  see  Vil  Holland  take 
his  fingers  from  his  teeth.  She  followed  his  gaze, 
and  a  block  away,  in  front  of  the  wooden  post- 
office,  saw  the  Reverend  Len  Christie  whirl  in  his 
tracks.  The  cowboy  motioned  him  to  wait,  and 
taking  the  girl  gently  by  the  arm,  turned  her 
about,  and  together  they  walked  toward  the 
"Bishop  of  All  Outdoors,"  who  awaited  them 
with  twinkling  eyes. 


The  Race  for  the  Register     343 

"It's  about  the  school,  I  presume,"  he  greeted. 
"Everything  is  all  arranged,  Miss  Sinclair.  You 
may  assume  your  duties  to-morrow." 

"If  I  was  you,  Len, "  replied  Vil  Holland, 
dryly,  "I  wouldn't  go  bettin'  much  on  that 
presoomer  of  yours — it  ain't  workin'  just  right, 
an'  Miss  Sinclair  has  decided  to  assoom  her  duties 
to-day.  So,  havin'  disposed  of  presoom,  an' 
assoom,  we'll  rezoom,  as  you'd  say  if  you  was 
dealin'  from  the  pulpit,  an'  if  you  ain't  got  any- 
thing more  important  on  your  mind,  we'll  just 
walk  over  to  the  church  an'  get  married.  " 

The  Reverend  Len  Christie  regarded  his  friend 
solemnly.  "I  didn't  think  it  of  you,  Vil — when 
I  bragged  to  you  yesterday  about  the  excellent 
teacher  I'd  got — I  didn't  think  you  would  slip 
right  out  and  get  her  away  from  me!" 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!  Really,  Mr.  Christie,  I 
didn't  mean  to  disappoint  you  in  this  way,  at  the 
last  minute " 

"Don't  you  go  wastin'  any  sympathy  on  that 
old  renegade, "  cut  in  Vil. 

"That's  right,"  laughed  Christie,  noting  the 
genuine  concern  in  the  girl's  eyes.  "As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  have  in  mind  a  substitute  who  will  be  tickled 
to  death  to  learn  that  she  is  to  have  the  regular 


344  The  Gold  Girl 

position.  Didn't  I  tell  you  out  at  the  Samuelsons* 
that  I  had  a  hunch  you'd  make  your  strike  before 
school  time?  Of  course,  everyone  knows  that 
Vil  is  the  one  who  made  the  real  strike,  but  you'll 
find  that  the  claim  you've  staked  isn't  so  bad,  and 
that  after  you  get  down  through  the  surface,  you 
will  run  onto  a  whole  lot  of  pure  gold. " 

Patty  who  had  been  regarding  him  with  a 
slightly  puzzled  expression  suddenly  caught  his 
allusion,  and  she  smiled  happily  into  the  face  of 
her  cowboy.  "I've  already  found  pure  gold, "  she 
said,  "and  it  lies  mighty  close  to  the  surface." 

In  the  little  church  after  the  hastily  summoned 
witnesses  had  departed,  the  Reverend  Len  Christie 
stood  holding  a  hand  of  each.  "Never  in  my  life 
have  I  performed  a  clerical  office  that  gave  me 
so  much  genuine  happiness  and  satisfaction,"  he 
announced. 

"Me,  neither,"  assented  Vil  Holland,  heartily, 
and,  then —  "Hold  on,  Len.  You're  too 
blame  young  an'  good  lookin'  for  such  tricks — an' 
besides,  I've  never  kissed  her,  myself,  yet !" 

"Where  will  it  be  now?"  asked  Holland,  when 
they  found  themselves  once  more  upon  the  street. 

"Home — dear,"  whispered  his  wife.  "You 
know  we've  got  to  get  that  cabin  up  before  snow 


The  Race  for  the  Register     345 

flies — our  cabin,  Vil — with  the  porch  that  will 
look  out  over  the  snows  of  the  changing  lights." 

"If  the  whole  town  didn't  have  their  heads  out 
the  window,  watchin'  us  I'd  kiss  you  right  here," 
he  answered,  and  strode  off  to  lead  her  horse  up 
beside  his  own. 

Swinging  her  into  the  saddle,  he  was  about  to 
mount  Lightning,  when  she  leaned  over  and  raised 
the  brown  leather  jug  on  its  thong.  "Why,  it's 
empty!"  she  exclaimed. 

"So  it  is, "  agreed  Holland,  with  mock  concern. 

"Really,  Vil,  I  don't  care — so  much.  If  it  don't 
hurt  men  any  more  than  it  has  hurt  you,  I  won't 
quarrel  with  it.    I'll  wait  while  you  get  it  filled." 

"Maybe  I'd  better,"  he  said,  and  swinging  it 
from  the  saddle  horn,  crossed  the  street  and  en- 
tered the  general  store.  A  few  minutes  later  he 
returned  and  swung  the  jug  into  place. 

"Why!  Do  they  sell  whisky  at  the  store?  I 
thought  you  got  that  at  a  saloon. " 

"Whisky!"  The  man  looked  up  in  surprise. 
"This  jug  never  held  any  whisky!  It's  my  vine- 
gar jug.    I  don't  drink." 

Patty  stared  at  him  in  amazement.  "Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  you  carry  a  jug  of  vinegar  with 
you  wherever  you  go?  " 


346  The  Gold  Girl 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  known  him  she 
saw  that  his  eyes  were  twinkling,  and  that  his  lips 
were  very  near  a  smile.  "No,  not  exactly,  but, 
you  see,  that  first  time  I  met  you  I  happened  to  be 
riding  from  town  with  this  jug  full  of  vinegar.  I 
noticed  the  look  you  gave  it,  an*  it  tickled  me  most 
to  death.  So,  after  that,  every  time  I  figured  I'd 
meet  up  with  you  I  brought  the  jug  along.  I'd 
pour  out  the  vinegar  an'  fill  it  up  with  water,  an' 
sometimes  I'd  just  pack  it  empty — then  when  I'd 
hit  town,  I'd  get  it  filled  again.  I  bet  Johnson, 
over  there,  thinks  I'm  picklin'  me  a  winter's  supply 
of  prickly  pears.  I  must  have  bought  close  to 
half  a  barrel  of  vinegar  this  summer." 

"Vil  Holland!  You  carried  that  jug — went  to 
all  that  trouble,  just  to — to  tease  me?" 

"That's  about  the  size  of  it.  An'  Gosh!  How 
you  hated  that  jug." 

"It  might  have — it  nearly  did,  make  me  hate 
you,  too." 

"'Might  have,'  an'  'nearly,'  an'  'if,'  are  all 
words  about  alike — they  all  sort  of  fall  short  of 
amountin'  to  any  thin'.  It  'might  have' — but, 
somehow,  things  don't  work  out  that  way.  The 
only  thing  that  counts  is,  it  didn't." 

Out  on  the  trail  they  met  Watts  riding  toward 


The  Race  for  the  Register     347 

town.  "Wher's  Microby?"  he  asked,  addressing 
Patty. 

"Microby!  I  haven't  seen  Microby  since  early 
this  morning.  She  was  riding  down  a  coulee  not 
far  from  Vil's  camp." 

41  Didn't  yo'  send  for  her?" 

"I  certainly  did  not!" 

The  man's  hand  fumbled  at  his  beard.  "Be- 
thune  was  along  last  evenin'  an'  hed  a  talk  with 
her,  an*  then  he  done  tol'  Ma  yo'  wanted  Microby 
should  come  up  to  yo*  place,  come  daylight. 
When  I  heern  it,  I  mistrusted  yo'  wouldn't  hev 
no  truck  with  Bethune,  so  after  I  done  the  chores, 
I  rode  up  ther'.  They  wasn't  no  one  to  hum." 
The  simple-minded  man  looked  worried.  "Be- 
thune, he  could  do  anything  he  wants  with  her. 
She  thinks  he's  grand — but,  I  know  different. 
Then  I  met  up  with  Lord  Clendennin'  in  the  can- 
yon, an'  he  tol*  me  how  Bethune  wus  headin'  fer 
Canady.  He  said,  had  I  lost  anythin'.  An'  I  said 
'no,'  an'  he  lafled  an'  says  he  guess  that's  right." 

As  Vil  Holland  listened,  his  eyes  hardened,  and 
at  the  conclusion,  something  very  like  an  oath 
ground  from  his  lips.  Patty  glanced  at  him  in 
surprise — never  before  had  she  seen  him  out  of 
poise. 


348  The  Gold  Girl 

"You  go  back  home,"  he  advised  Watts,  in  a 
kindly  tone,  "to  the  wife  and  the  kids.  I'll  find 
Microby  for  you ! " 

When  the  man  had  passed  from  sight  into  the 
dip  of  a  coulee,  Vil  leaned  over  and,  drawing  his 
wife  close  to  his  breast,  kissed  her  lips  again  and 
again.  "It's  too  bad,  little  girl,  that  our  honey- 
moon's got  to  be  broke  into  this  way,  but  you 
remember  I  told  you  once  that  if  I  won  you'd  have 
to  be  satisfied  with  what  you  got.  You  didn't 
know  what  I  meant,  then,  but  you  know,  now — 
an'  I'm  goin'  to  win  again!  I'm  goin'  to  find  that 
child !  The  poor  little  fool ! "  Patty  saw  that  his 
eyes  were  flashing,  and  his  voice  sounded  hard : 

"You  ride  back  to  town  and  tell  Len  to  get  his 
white  goods  together  an'  ride  back  with  you  to 
Watts's.  There's  goin*  to  be  a  funeral — or  better 
yet,  a  weddin'  arC  a  funeral  in  it  for  him  by  this 
time  to-morrow,  or  my  name  ain't  Vil  Holland!" 
And  then,  abruptly,  he  turned  and  rode  into  the 
North. 

A  wild  impulse  to  overtake  him  and  dissuade 
him  from  his  purpose  took  possession  of  the  girl. 
But  the  thought  of  Microby  in  the  power  of  Be- 
thune,  and  of  the  sorrowing  face  of  poor  Watts 
stayed  her.     She  saw  her  husband  hitch  his  belt 


The  Race  for  the  Register     349 

forward  and  swiftly  look  to  his  six-gun,  and  as  the 
sound  of  galloping  hoofs  grew  fainter,  she  watched 
his  diminishing  figure  until  it  was  swallowed  up 
in  the  distance. 

Impulsively  she  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him : 
"Good  luck  to  you,  my  knight!"  she  called,  but 
the  words  ended  in  a  sob,  and  she  turned  her  horse 
and,  with  a  vast  happiness  in  her  heart,  rode  back 
toward  the  town. 


THE  END. 


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